


The Book that Binds

by Desert_Sea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, F/M, Hand Jobs, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Sex Toys, Shower Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-17 00:11:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5846350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desert_Sea/pseuds/Desert_Sea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione Granger is the newly-appointed Professor of Muggle Studies and Severus Snape is the not-so-newly-appointed Professor of making her life a misery. But could a simple book be enough to bring them together?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Book that Binds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OracleObscured](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OracleObscured/gifts).



> All characters, things and places are owned by J.K. Rowling. I have enjoyed the opportunity to play with them. I make no money from my fan-fiction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is dedicated to my gorgeous friend OracleObscured whose writing inspired me to start writing in the first place. She has been my biggest supporter throughout and is one of the kindest and most generous people I have ever known. Without her wise and encouraging words, I doubt that I would still be writing. Her open and courageous approach to writing (and life) has been truly inspiring. Thanks Oracle :)

Hermione’s fingers stuttered over the book spines, like the paling fences she had trailed along, guiding her home as a child. They flashed their gilt-edged titles in return, audacious shopfronts beckoning for her to enter. _Which to choose? Which to choose this time?_ Amber-flecked eyes staring, glassy with hypnotic reverie, she strode along in the semi-gloom, her impish shadow writhing and twisting around her, hiding from the flickering lamps spotted about the library. Should it be one of the greying bendy ones, full of handwritten notes from authors long dead? Or one of the stout tomes standing to attention like steadfast soldiers protecting their bounty of knowledge? It didn’t really matter. They didn’t stand a chance, any of them, she knew every trick for cajoling even the most inaccessible of tomes to give up their treasures.

Hermione Granger had thought the Hogwarts library vast as a student, but as the newly-appointed Professor of Muggle Studies, it had expanded exponentially. It wasn’t, however, a magical enhancement. It was simply a matter of access. There were a vast number of additional rooms for staff—cell upon cell of dusty spaces that held books so rare that it had been suggested on more than one occasion that the greatest concern for the wizarding world in the last war wasn’t that the staff or students of Hogwarts might be blasted into oblivion, but that this collection of ancient and irreplaceable knowledge would be lost.

It was with the reverence that this statement demanded, that she addressed them. She whispered their names, crooned, caressed and inhaled their musty breath as she moved from room to room. She was suddenly glad she was alone (in fact she probably wasn’t supposed to be here so late), as anyone else may have mistaken her antics for the crazed lust of a stalker, which indeed she was.

‘ _Lust_ ’. _Mmm_. She should have avoided that word. Even in the innocent space of her own head. _Hah! Who was she kidding?_ The thought traffic that gambolled about in her mind was far from innocent. Sometimes it was so far from innocent that it scared her. And, she had to admit . . . excited her.

And that was it. Her resolve to be proper—a proper Professor—was gone. Dissipated. So tenuous was her hold on propriety that all it took was one word—‘lust’ to undo her years of politely acquired training. He had been right. That bastard Professor Snape had been absolutely correct about her appointment. It wasn’t on merit, it was because she was Headmistress McGonagall’s favourite, one of the golden trio. Sure, she grew up in the Muggle world and, therefore, should be reasonably qualified for the role. But Snape had completely thrown her confidence. It had taken only a week of snide remarks, smirks and snorts to debase her, to render her an awkward, bumbling student once more. To him, she wasn’t even an insufferable know-it-all any more. She was an insufferable know-nothing.   

Agitated steps quickening with her breathing, she rounded the corner and started down a fresh row. She needed something dirty to read as a matter of urgency. Her jaw cracked in defiance against the sneering ghost of Snape who haunted her in a manner that made Peeves’ antics a welcome relief.  His toxic beakiness (it probably wasn’t a word but it summed up his proboscis-led malevolence) had seeped into her brain like acid, etching a Snape-shaped hole, that she hadn’t managed to plug even through her years as a trainee. Well, now she would show him how ill-suited she was for the role. She’d find a filthy book and flog herself silly with it.

He was probably such a prude that he hadn’t a clue about sex. Where would he have gained the experience? In his unrequited fawning over Lily Evans? That was a low blow. Even for her. But she needed to knock him off the lofty perch that he occupied inside her mind. What did she care of his miserable sex life? The thought of even touching him disgusted her. Mainly because the thought of touching her probably disgusted him.

She huffed, fuelled by a mixture of defiance and arousal, more determined than ever to find something lascivious to revel in. After acquiring said book, she might take it to the top of the Astronomy tower and dance about naked, rubbing it all over her body and shouting her orgasm to the stars. Actually, she probably wouldn’t do that. It was too cold for one thing. And she had a new toy in her drawer that she hadn’t taken the shine off yet.

At the end of the row she found another door. Locked. Stealthily unsheathing her wand from the depths of her sleeve, she cast Alohomora and entered. Now this was interesting. Cabinets. Two of them. Glass fronted and . . . she rattled one by the silver handle . . . also locked. It was so dusky now that the moonlight through the small window did no more than accentuate the gloom. Casting Lumos, she peered into the cabinet. _Ahhh!_ The discovery was both surprising and inevitable. She knew those dirty wizards and witches couldn’t survive on knowledge alone.

She leered at her bounty. _Sex of the Ageless. Cockatrice – the man with three penises. The 7 year Witch. Titillating Tentacles. Gilderoy Lockhart Sex God (by G. Lockhart). A Snitch in the Snatch. Potions of Passion. Anal Need Not Be Banal_ . . . she shook her head, that didn’t even make sense. Only one had caught her eye so far— _Potions of Passion_. She wondered if her interest was piqued by her desire to flout the interests of a particular Potions Master. Regardless of her motivation, it might even prove useful—if she ever needed to brew anything to help her in that department.

Casting a cursory glance over both shoulders, more for affect than effect, she focused on the lock. It was heavily warded and the lock unnecessarily complicated considering that it was simply protecting a few dirty books. But she didn’t top her N.E.W.Ts for nothing. She was smart. After casting an array of deciphering and configuration spells, she had narrowed down her options and then set about casting a complex and methodical set of ward removal and lock picking spells that, within minutes, saw the cabinet door pop.

Swinging it open with one hand, she reached in and grasped the small book by the spine. “Thank you Mr Boats,” she murmured, noticing the name of the author. “I hope you can get me wet enough to sink . . . someone’s . . . sub.”

There was a scrape from outside. Her anxiously reckless hand slammed the cabinet door shut, more quickly than intended. _Shit! That was loud!_ The seconds of breath holding that followed transferred her heartbeat from her chest to her eardrums, making it even more difficult to hear.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was . . . _Holy Fuck!_

The door was flung open and the man of her nightmares materialised—pale face framed in black, like death himself.

“ _Miss_ . . . Granger. What . . . do you think . . . you are doing?” Snape’s voice was low and dangerous, his black eyes penetrated and petrified her, like a human basilisk.

She couldn’t even breathe, let alone speak. 

“I said . . . “

Suddenly his eyes dropped to the book in her hand. Lunging forward, he grabbed it.

“I’ll take that,” he hissed through the gaps in his yellowing teeth.

Despite her abject terror, she continued to cling on to it, finger to finger with him.

Her automatic response to the towering, and immensely powerful, wizard, even when he wasn’t turning up like an apparition from hell, was firmly anchored in the insecurities of her inner child. But, she desperately reminded herself, she wasn’t a child any more. She was an adult. And she was also a Professor, like him (well in title at least). He couldn’t tell her what to do—actually that sounded more like the truculent inner child. But, anyway, that feeble conviction would have to do.

“Professor, I have been given permission to access all of the books in the library,” she said, trying to sound mature and reasonable despite the obvious terror that was playing her vocal cords like a cello in the shower scene from _Psycho_.

“Were you given permission to disable the wards and locks . . . in the library?” His frown was so deep that it appeared to slice his pale forehead in two.

Hermione took a deep breath and lifted her quivering chin.

“I don’t understand why wards and locks are needed in the areas only accessible to teaching staff.”

He snorted and gave her such a withering glare that she was surprised she didn’t melt on the spot like the Wicked Witch of the West.  

“Possibly, to keep certain staff out,” he spat the last word in her face.

“I have just as much right to be here as you do,” she replied indignantly. “And I have just as much right to read the books in this area.”

He barked out a mirthless laugh. “Hah! Smut? Is that what you came . . . looking . . . for?”

Cheeks flaming in acknowledgement, she shook her head dumbly.

He lifted his chin to look down the curving ridge of his beak-like nose, lining her up like a target.

“It seems you are here by accident then,” he sneered. “I suggest you release this book at once and be on your way.”

She glared at him. She didn’t want the book that badly but she also didn’t want to kowtow to him. Not so easily. She had endured a constant week of it in the staff room, where she couldn’t respond. Now they were alone. Just the two of them.

“You release it,” she replied, her voice taking on a defiant edge. “And I’ll return it to the cabinet.”

It was immature. A feeble attempt to one-up him. But it was all the hyperventilating inner child could muster.

He sneered, dragging his eyes down her quaking form. He could dissect any and every element of her being—slice her to the very core with a few well-placed, razor-sharp words. But he was about ready to collapse after a long day of teaching, followed by hours of unproductive rounds. Also, he was determined not to appear equally juvenile to the witch before him, acquiescing with a disdainful jerk of his neck, as if he had just caught a whiff of something offensive.

“Very well.”

His obsidian eyes radiated cold like shadowy snow globes from the heart of winter. Hermione shivered.

Nothing happened.

She eyed him warily. Waiting.

His mouth twisted at the corners as his shoulders tensed and swayed a little.

She shook her head in confusion. _What was he doing?_

He gritted his teeth and clutched at the wrist of the hand holding the book.

His face suddenly turned pale—more pale than usual. “Miss Granger. I would like you to drop the book . . . Now!”

His voice, dark and threatening, was enough for her to give up any rights to the book. It really wasn’t a big . . . _Ow!_ The muscles in her hand strained and popped as she tried to pry her fingers open. She couldn’t. Her hand seemed to be stuck. Fast.

He caught her small wrist in his long fingers, attempting to pull the book from her grasp.

“Ouch! Professor, stop it!” She tried to twist out of his firm hold, only just resisting the urge to thump him on the shoulder. “It’s stuck!”

“It can’t be,” he muttered.

“Stop it!” She yanked her arm back and he suddenly came with it, falling into her and pinning her against the cabinet with his tall frame.

His face, only millimetres from hers, washed warm breath, laced with peppermint, over her flushing skin. It was surprisingly pleasant but completely wrong.

“Professor!”

He lurched back to a standing position, his other hand running distractedly through his raven hair. She had never seen him so unsettled.

“I . . .” He ran the hand over his mouth and chin, a soft rasp of prickles whispering under his fingers. “I believe this book has been hexed.” His jaw flicked slightly to the side, as if his body was unable to prevent itself expressing its disbelief.  

It took a few seconds for his words to sink in.

“Hexed? In what way?” Hermione continued to glare at him accusingly, as she rubbed her aching wrist.

“I believe it is a book binding spell.” His voice was level but his broad shoulders were billowing noticeably with the lungfuls of air he was sucking in.

“Book binding?” She stared at their hands, both clutching the spine of the book, index fingers kissing. “Well undo it then. You’re supposed to be one of the world’s most powerful wizards aren’t you?”

He threw her a contemptuous look, his jaw muscles bulging like walnuts. “If you had any knowledge hidden inside that rat’s maze of yours you might already know that book binding hexes require the correct release phrase.”

Hermione blinked. How dare he insult her hair.

“And if you had even a spark of inventiveness or initiative under that greasy mop, you might be able to come up with a solution!”

He glared at her and performed an unusual action which was probably intended to be an arm cross, but with one hand out of action, it looked like he was crossing his chest to make some sort of vindictive pledge.

They stood in silence. Awkward and angry. She was touching him. Only a small strip of skin on their index fingers was shared, but even that was too much. She was tired. She wanted to lock herself in her room and cry. She’d had a bad fright and even reading a lewd book was no longer a priority.

“Aren’t you going to do something?” she demanded, her fear having retreated to hide behind her burgeoning anger.

He sighed, looking uneasy. “It’s my wand hand.”

“What?”

“My wand hand is stuck to the book. I’m unable to cast . . . anything.”

It couldn’t be worse. Hermione doubted that two people could despise one another more. And here they were. Stuck together. Literally.

It was such a bizarre predicament that her mind had no purchase on how to proceed. It was he who finally broke the stalemate.

“We can’t stay here all night.”

“And where do you propose we go?” She propped her free hand on her hip in an attempt to look haughty but the action was decidedly diminished by her uncooperative other hand that continued to press against his. “My room or yours?”

“Neither!” he growled, clearly furious at his predicament. Not only couldn’t he get away from her, he had been rendered magically impotent.

“Can’t the book be destroyed? Cut in half or something?” Hermione threw out desperate ideas, hoping for a life line.

Without even attempting to disguise his contempt he responded. “The binding curse simultaneously binds the very fabric of the object, making it tamper-proof. It was originally intended to prevent thievery. Didn’t quite work did it?” he sneered.

“I’m hardly a thief,” she muttered.

“And yet if you hadn’t been so determined to undermine the library security system, imposed for good reason I might add, we would not have found ourselves in such an . . . unpleasant . . . predicament.”

Despite herself, she suddenly had an image of him guzzling down walnut oil—his baritone voice was so impossibly rich and slick, and had the disconcerting capacity to lubricate . . . just when and where she didn’t want it to.

Hermione inhaled quickly, attempting to reassert herself and divert attention from her need to squirm. “Look, I’m not going to apologise. You shouldn’t have tried to snatch the book out of my hand. I’m really tired and I need some sleep, so come up with a plan soon or I will simply march up to my room and Leviosa you like a helium-filled balloon behind me.”

She saw uncertainty flicker across his features again. She allowed herself an inward smile. It was a pleasant change to finally be on top. _Why had she used that expression? Now she had the completely unbidden image of . . . no, no, no. Never!_

 “We will go to the potions classroom,” he snapped, turning on his heel and storming toward the door. Hermione lurched after him, dragged along by the palm of her hand.

She was hauled through rows and flung around bends like a rag doll, his long strides forging a sinuous path through the maze of rooms and, finally, out of the library.

“Professor!” she gasped, clutching at the stabbing pain in her side. “Professor you must slow down! My legs aren’t as long as yours!”

He glared over his shoulder at her. “Perhaps if you had chosen to wear more appropriate clothing you might not be experiencing such difficulty.”

Hermione bristled. She was wearing perfectly suitable clothing—a knee length fitted maroon skirt and loose cream-coloured blouse under her robes. Her sandals had a slight heel but nothing improper. She had been right. He was a prude. He probably found the sight of any flesh disgusting. He certainly ensured that his pale epidermis was only exposed in small translucent windows—fingers and face—and barely that with his hanging locks of greasy hair.

She only just stopped herself from telling him to go fuck himself. She was still touching him. It was disconcerting to feel that tingle, that rub. If she had been able to run away and hide, she would have given it to him, both barrels. But she could expect no such solace. Not yet.

Despite his vitriol, she noticed that his strides slowed marginally as he led them down corridor after corridor. Her calves were aching. While he wasn’t looking, she withdrew her wand and whispered a spell to transfigure her shoes into comfortable flats. _Fuck him!_

When they arrived at the potions classroom, distinctly sepulchral for the late hour, she was gasping breathlessly, while he looked like he had done nothing more than enjoy a casual stroll around the lake. She was aware that his own chambers could be accessed through an adjoining door but he made no move in that direction. Instead, he dragged two student desks together, propped small wooden chairs behind them and sat down at one, pulling her into the other.

“So this is the plan is it?” she rasped, her throat aching from the forced march.

He tapped the fingers of his free hand on the desktop, staring straight ahead, ignoring her.

Hermione sighed and stood up, drawing her wand. With quick, confident flicks, she transfigured two chairs into long wooden benches, side by side, and levitated a pile of soft polishing cloths from the corner of the room, transfiguring them into two plump pillows, mattresses (probably too thin but she didn’t have a lot to work with) and a blanket for each of them.

She dragged him officiously from his seat and made her way over to one of the benches, sinking down onto the mattress, then lying her woolly head on the pillow before pulling the blanket over herself. She refused to speak or even look at him but she could still feel him. They were touching, after all.

There was a loud protest from the other bench as he reached out and dragged it across the stone floor, close enough so that he could lie down also, with their arms and the book hanging between them like a collapsing bridge.

It seemed like only moments before the soft susurration of her breathing told him that she was asleep. Her arm jerked involuntarily, tugging on his. Perhaps she was dreaming about throttling him.

He was still furious. But mainly at himself. He was also bone-tired, barely able to think. Staring at her soft features, fluttering golden in the lamplight, he felt a sudden surge of something that he had to immediately suppress. He pushed it down until it felt like a hard lump in his chest. Until it felt uncomfortable, like resentment. It wasn’t, but if he was going to survive this. To survive her at all. He had to believe it.

Her lips shuddered slightly. It was fucking cold. And she was only wearing a skirt and blouse under her robes. _Merlin! That skirt_. His chest swelled again and it didn’t stop there, burning down through his abdomen to the forgotten member that had been hibernating for longer than he cared to remember. _What the fuck was he going to do?_

Sitting up, he pulled his free arm out of his robe, then drew the garment down over the arm that linked with hers. Passing the book through the sleeve hole, he carefully threaded it back up her arm and tucked the heavy material over and around her before returning to his bench.

He watched her for what seemed like hours before falling into an unsettled sleep.

 


	2. The Wills that Wind

“Professor?” The urgent pleading in her voice was followed by a tremulous gasp as he plunged his long fingers into the warm, wet confines of her pussy. She was on the verge of coming but she was asking for his permission, she needed it.

“Professor?” Her face contorted as she begged for her release.

He matched her desperate thrusts with his own. And finally, with her muscular channel sucking and squeezing at his pistoning digits, he gave in to her desires.

“Now, my dear, you may come. Come for me . . . “

“Professor!”

The sharp blow to his shoulder had him springing up like a jack-in-the box. “What?”

Hermione was standing over him, her face pinched with strain. “I need to use the bathroom—urgently.”

“Oh. Right.” He was still reeling, the dream state images sluggishly receding like the slimy tail of some sordid serpent.

Clearing his throat, his mind jumped to the other sordid serpent that hadn’t the sense to recede at all, instead it shamefully, painfully, taunted him as he tried to re-position the blanket on his lap.

“I’ll have my robes back now if you don’t mind,” he snapped, holding out his free hand expectantly, trying to divert her attention.

She blinked down at the mass of dark cloth puddled around her feet. “Oh, I don’t remember putting that on.”

“You didn’t.” He beckoned his hand impatiently. “You were chattering like a chipmunk. I couldn’t get to sleep.”

She cocked her head indignantly. First her hair and now her teeth. This man was running insults on tap. Grumpily, she pushed the robe down her arm, over the book and threw the rest of the cloth into his lap.   

He eyed her warily as he carefully swivelled around on the bench, trying to wrap the garment discreetly around himself using only one arm.

“Do you need some help?” she sighed, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“I’m perfectly capable . . . “

“What I’m saying is can you hurry up? I’m about to . . . “ She grimaced, not wanting to use any words that might either trigger the flow or conjure a visual that she had no intension of sharing.

“Fine,” he huffed, standing and cinching his robe awkwardly around his middle. “There’s a student bathroom down the corridor.”

“That’s too far.” She rubbed her knuckles against her thigh, the maroon material scuffing with her urgent strokes. “I’ll use yours.”

“You most definitely will not!” His eyebrows arched menacingly.

“Why not? It’s just there.” She nodded toward his chambers.

His low voice buzzed through gritted teeth. “Those are my _private_ quarters.”

“Your choice.” She swallowed, more fearful now of her treacherous bladder than his mounting fury. “Let me use your bathroom or I will go here on your classroom floor.”

He glared at her moments longer before a jumbled array of half-formed words blustered from under his breath. She heard ‘ _fuckinsuff_ ’ which she suspected was a truncated version of ‘fucking insufferable‘ but was beyond caring, allowing herself to be dragged to his door. He barked sharp orders for her to release the wards and unlock the door, before flinging it open and barging through a small but tidy lounge.

Without time to survey the room properly, her immediate impression was one of a refined but masculine style. ‘ _That sort of fitted’,_ she conceded. It was a reflection of his general appearance and demeanour. But when they took the similar breakneck speed tour of his bedroom—that was an entirely different matter.

There was a richness to it, a sensorial beauty. The covers and furnishings reminded her of a mossy sun-dappled grove that she and Ginny had once happened upon in the heart of the Forbidden Forest. Plush cushions of velvety greens and golds, impossibly fine rugs—buoyant underfoot, dew drop chandeliers and cut glass lamps splashing jewels of light around the walls. She was so entranced that she almost forgot her bladder until they rocketed through a final door into the bathroom.

He turned and glared at her, breathing heavily.

“Professor, if you will give me a moment,” she addressed him with as much dignity as she could muster, considering she would be touching him as she sat doing her business.

She waited for him to turn away and, even though she was bursting at the seams, took the precaution of casting a silencing spell.

 _How dare she!_ he fumed. He’d allowed only a handful of people into his private chambers in the nearly two decades he’d been at Hogwarts. _And she demands entry for what? So she can soil his bathroom?_

It was a few moments before he noticed her reflection, distorted in the curve of the spout like some animated surrealist painting but still, irrefutably her, unbuttoning . . . her . . . skirt . . . His breath hitched. _Should he close his eyes?_ _He should shouldn’t he?_ _No. He couldn’t. He had to see. Which way would it go? Up or down? The skirt. That skirt that held her so intimately. Like flower petals, embracing even silkier softness._

He grimaced as his ‘fair weather friend’ poked its head up for another look. _Would she pull it up? Revealing her knees, thighs and_ . . . he swallowed with an audible click. No, it was slithering down. Both hands, fingers spread, trailing the fabric over smooth thighs, shuddering on its rippling descent. Then she was sinking, down, down, her head and shoulders now the only reflection, the fingers of her free hand running through her caramel hair.

And he could feel her, that finger against his, moving. _Why was it moving? What reason did it have to move? To stroke against his, to caress. Gods, it was like water torture. Drip by drip. Slip by slip._

He closed his eyes then, willing his eager cock to cooperate. To behave. He understood its excitement. It had been an inordinately long time since they’d witnessed female flesh of any sort— except the particularly unpleasant occasion when Madam Hooch had insisted he help remove a splinter from her bottom. But it wasn’t the flesh that was the issue here. And they both knew it—he and his cock. It was the particularly particular person whom the flesh belonged to.

 _Why had she come back?_ He’d only just managed to rein in his thoughts of her after years of obsession. She’d been his student and he’d respected their relationship as such, never once straying from propriety despite the surges of desire that had almost driven him insane in her final year. And now she turns up, the ‘new Professor’, all bubbly and shiny and supple and curvy and drizzled with honey. He was nearly twice her age. She despised him. And with good reason. He had been a complete prick to her. It was the only way he could cope. And it was the only way he could cope now.

“Have you quite finished?” he drawled. “Or are we to continue with this Niagara Falls impression for the rest of the morning?”

She wished she’d cast a silencing spell on him. She’d get up when she was good and ready. In fact, she might even draw it out a bit longer than necessary. Then a thought struck her. He was probably desperate to go himself, but too proud to say.

Sighing, she cast a quick scourgify on herself, yanked up her knickers and skirt and flushed. Dropping the silencing spell she yanked on the book.

“Your turn.”

Spinning to face her— _why did all his movements resemble a snake striking?_ —he narrowed his eyes but didn’t contradict her assumption.

Stalking over to the bowl, he threw her an accusing look as if she had suggested something improper.

“Do you need help?” she asked, suddenly annoyed by his silent insinuation.

“And why would I need help?” His free hand twitched as it hovered by his crotch, he was clearly desperate for relief.

“Oh I don’t know, you have a penchant for buttons, I thought perhaps you might have carried the theme through to your underwear.”

“Of course you did.” His words and tone were as dry as parchment.

She’d made her point. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of watching.” She quickly cast a silencing spell on him and turned away before he could respond.

 _Did he really think she was that pathetically desperate?_ Sure, he’d caught her trying to procure smut by disabling a security system more complicated than the one protecting the Crown Jewels. Maybe she just liked a challenge? It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen her fair share of male genitalia. She’d had a pretty good time at Teacher’s College as it had turned out. There seemed to be no shortage of wizards wanting to display and demonstrate their wares, but it had been quite a few months since she had seen or done anything. And hence the book. And hence this entire fucking fiasco.

_He must be finished by now._

She turned her head slightly. _Was he still going?_

She turned further. _Merlin’s Buggery Balls!_

She had just solved a number of mysteries. One happened to be the mystery of the Loch Ness Monster. No wonder it couldn’t be found, it had been hidden in Snape’s woollen trousers all this time.

She gaped. _And it didn’t appear to be entirely flaccid. Maybe that’s why he was taking so . . ._

Her arm jerked violently. He was glaring at her, shouting something, trying to cover himself up. ‘ _Not a chance!’_ she thought as she looked away, gasping with a mixture of excitement and fear.

She felt a series of smaller tugs on her arm like a fish on the end of a line. Only, this particular fish wasn’t one she was keen to reel in. Suddenly, she was pulled, bodily, slamming into his hard chest. He had a fistful of her blouse in one hand and the book hand behind his back so that her arm was twisted at an awkward angle. He was breathing heavily.

She had to crane her neck to look up at his blood-red face. “I’m sorry.”

It was the only thing she could think to say. He was trembling against her, clearly distressed. She wasn’t sure why he was so upset. But it _was_ Snape, he probably had hang-ups about all sorts of things.

“I really am sorry.” She genuinely meant it. “I thought you’d finished. You were taking so long that I . . . “

He looked at her intently as his lips moved, tongue thudding silently behind them. She dropped the silencing charm.

“Don’t . . . speak . . . to me.”

***

If Hermione had thought it was awkward being physically bound to her past Potions Professor by a sex book, it was only to get worse. He seemed determined to pretend that she wasn’t there at all, dragging her around like a naughty child on one of those harnesses she sometimes saw in the supermarket.                                                          

He moved expeditiously despite his encumbrance—although, admittedly, she had quickly given up resisting and was now simply stumbling about, trying to avoid collisions with the furniture. By the time he finally allowed them to sit, occupying opposite ends of an expensively brocaded couch near the fire, he had managed to floo Headmistress McGonagall to tell her that their lessons would need to be cancelled for the day, accumulated a teetering pile of books from his private collection which now bowed at them from the small table, ordered the house elf to bring them breakfast (which sat steaming on a tray) and had knitted his brow into such an expression of consternation that Hermione wondered if, despite the clarity of his actions, he might have actually lost the plot.

Snatching up a book from the pile, he flipped over the front cover and placed it on the arm of the couch, his dark eyes scanning efficiently down the page.

Hermione watched as the invisible waves of fury continued to radiate from him, tapping her fingers on her wand and wondering what to do. He really was being a bit OTT—over the top, but she suspected informing him of such was not going to help her cause. She decided to do what she always did in times like this. Drink tea.

Using her wand, she poured them both cups. She actually knew how he took his. It was something she tended to pay attention to, a courtesy that made people feel special. She didn’t know how well it would go down with Professor I’m-not-special-enough-even-though-I-have-an-enormous-cock. Or maybe he thought he was too special. She really couldn’t tell.

She decided to make it the way he liked it—strong with sugar and cream. Which was strange because he took his coffee black, no sugar; and his kippers medium; and his toast well done. _Fuck, why did she know so much about him?_ _She’d only been there just over a week_. She even knew that he turned his toast as he buttered it.

She sighed inwardly, wondering as much about herself as about him. He was a total bastard to her. He always had been. And he was being one now. But then there were the nagging doubts that wheedled away at her like weevils in wheat. There were things that didn’t fit. Stolen glances, intakes of breath, lightening of frowns. She was sure she wasn’t imagining it—not all of it.

Nonplussed, she cast leviosa and set the cup down on the table before him. The familiar rattle of crockery announcing tea seemed to jolt him from his book focus. His eyes rested upon the cup for an inordinately long period.

“Thankyou.” The word wasn’t clipped. It was fleshy and full. He meant it.

Hermione let out the breath she had been holding. Perhaps this was the olive branch. She still didn’t think she had done anything particularly wrong but they had a serious problem to deal with and were going to have to work it out together. Being able to speak was probably going to be an important requirement.

She followed the tea with honey-drizzled porridge, then marmalade on toast. By the time they had finished, warm and full, it felt like the tension had dissipated considerably.

He drew in a deep breath and brushed toast crumbs from the front of his coat. “These are all the books I have on hexes and curses. Between us, we need to read them and work out a solution.”

It was the most reasonable she had ever heard him—when talking to her at least.

Hermione leaned forward and took the next book from the top of the stack. In companionable silence they read, flicking pages, checking indexes and references, rubbing tired eyes and Hermione occasionally wrote notes on the parchment she had borrowed from his desk in the corner. Lunch came and went, as did dinner.

She was halfway through her fourth book when she noticed that he was asleep, jaw propped on his fist. She closed the book, taking the opportunity to look at him, properly, without the scowl. He really wasn’t that scary when his face was softened by the gentle hand of sleep. His skin, although pale, was surprisingly fine, like polished alabaster and his lips, slightly parted, she had to admit, looked particularly delicious. _Delicious? Another word she shouldn’t have used._ _But now she couldn’t unthink it_.

His mouth, almost permanently etched in a grim line, when parted, revealed two plump, gently undulating pads—sensual peaks and valleys that his words, like tumbled gems rolled around and over. _That voice._ Her fingers curled into the thick brocade. It turned every word roasted and golden. She thought about licking each muttered morsel, right out from between those soft sensual pads. _Shit!_ Her hand had risen inadvertently to her mouth and she was now biting too hard on the webbing between her thumb and index finger.

Stretching her hand to ease the pain, she realised that there was only one thing to do. Only one thing she wanted to do. Consult Mr Boats. Placing the unfinished book on the table, she gently eased both of their hands around until the book between their palms was facing her. Eyeing him warily for any signs of waking, she opened the cover.

_Foreword_

_The art of sex—of love-making—in all its forms, can be exquisitely enhanced by the yield of a skilful and passionate brewer. The ten potions of passion described in this book have been chosen for both their potency and capacity to induce and augment sensual and sexual pleasure. Each brewing process is accompanied by a detailed description of how the potion may be applied for maximum effect. (I. Boats)_

Hermione’s flush deepened. _Was this a good idea?_ She was already wet and aching from her previous unbridled imaginings. And what sort of relief could she expect to achieve. He wasn’t going to stay asleep through . . . well through anything particularly vigorous. And what would happen if he caught her in the act. Red handed. Well not red handed it wasn’t that time of the month . . . _Oh shit she hated her mind sometimes!_

She turned to the first chapter.

_Potions of Passion:_

  1. _Seduction._



_Feel the surrender. The nuzzle of the nozzle. Its slips and nips. Its sultry tips. A dribble. A nervous tipple. The tincture shudders and sighs, its lazy lengthening, in hazy eyes._

Hermione’s mouth fell open. _Oh fuck! He was a wordsmith too. It was her absolute weakness. This definitely wasn’t the right time to . . ._

“So we’ve moved on from scholarly hypotheses to pornographic tripe have we?”

She jumped, glancing up to see his obsidian orbs drilling into her.

“As a matter of fact,” she replied primly, attempting to assuage her debaucherous yearning. “This book is far from pornographic. It is rather beautifully poetic.”

He snorted.

So she gave it to him. In her most darkly seductive voice.

“Feel the surrender. The nuzzle of the nozzle. Its slips and nips. Its sultry tips. A dribble. A nervous tipple. The tincture shudders and sighs, its lazy lengthening, in hazy eyes.”

He looked at her a moment before snorting again. “Sounds like a moon-eyed drip.”

“He’s a wordsmith,” she replied indignantly.

“He’s a wanksmith.”

“Mr Boats is _not_ a wanksmith.”

“Mr Boats?” He smirked. “More like Mr Boasts. I’ve never heard anyone happier with their own abstrusely syncopated vocabulary.”

He turned away from her and continued reading his book.

“Look who’s talking,” Hermione muttered under her breath, wishing she hadn’t read it to him.

He was clearly jealous. Why wouldn’t he be? Here was a man who could make women gush into their gussets with a few simple lines of prose. She couldn’t deny that the man opposite her had a way with the spoken word. A way of pissing her off with the spoken word—with his typically Snape-ish snidery. But then she made the mistake of imagining him reading her those lines. His mouth around ‘tipple’ did her nipples and ‘lazy lengthening’ reamed her labia. She was at risk of making an embarrassing stain on his expensive couch. She needed to move.

“I assume we’re sleeping here?” she said briskly, leaping up. “I’ll transfigure the other chair into a bed. It’ll be warmer and hopefully more comfortable.”

He nodded, not looking up from his book.

As she busied herself with preparing their sleeping quarters, he allowed himself a grimace. _Fuck, he wished she hadn’t read those lines to him. And used that voice._ His cock had had more of a workout in the past twenty-four hours than it had had in years. And there was no opportunity for relief or even to release it from the painful confines of his trousers. The sooner they sorted out this book bind the better. He had so little control over his emotions and bodily functions it was humiliating. He needed to get away.

Hermione lay in the darkness, her hand reaching out to his. It was ridiculous, really. They looked like two yearning lovers and yet each was clearly desperate to get as far away from the other as possible. The chairs weren’t comfortable. She wished she’d suggested his bed. Or hers. The less sleep she had, the more difficult it was going to be to cope with his erratic behaviour.

At least in the bed she’d be warm. He might even touch her. _Would she let him?_ It depended what he touched her with. What if it was with that impressive cock? And if he was looking to demonstrate in no uncertain terms why he was the House Master of ‘Slither . . . In’?

 


	3. The Force that Finds

Hermione was woken by an acute case of missing limb. The arm attached to the book had disappeared overnight and been replaced by a hunk of numb meat which started tingling and throbbing when she tried to move it. 

_Shit that hurt!_

She groaned and rolled onto her side, blinking through the pain. His eyes were open. Clear and alert. Watching her. _How long had he been awake?_

She frowned. _Was she expected to smile at him?_ It wasn’t like they wanted to wake up together. His expression was inscrutable. _What if he was thinking, ‘fuck I hate you’?_ A smile would make her look like a sickly sycophant or an evil witch, depending upon the hate filter. There was also the possibility that she was overthinking it.

“Good morning,” he rumbled, continuing to watch her.

“Is it?” She didn’t mean to sound so sarcastic. _What else could she say? ‘Good morning to you too. Doodley Doo!’_ It wasn’t a good fucking morning. She’d slept like rubbish and her body felt like it had gone ten rounds with a possessed bludger. Then there was the charming proposition of spending another day stuck to her cantankerous curmudgeon of a Potions Professor by a fucking sex book.

She stank. She could smell herself. He could probably smell her. She watched his nose. _Was it smelling her?_ Good luck to it if it was. The stench was only going to get worse. She needed a shower. Or a bath. He probably did too. She closed her eyes, another groan escaping her as she imagined just how awkward that was going to be. If she’d thought the toilet incident had gone badly, how was she going to deal with the prospect of ‘Nessy’ breaching his bathwaters?

 _She’s in a particularly foul mood_ , he mused. Her face looked like she’d just eaten a flobberworm pus sandwich and her hair was doing a pretty good impression of Medusa on a bad day. He frowned as she stuck her hand under her armpit and smelt it. _Merlin’s festering foreskin! So much for feminine mystique!_

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. If he was going to make it through the day, he knew he was going to have to make some painful compromises. Otherwise things would become unbearable. More unbearable.  

“I need a shower.”

 _Gods!_ He pinched his nose even harder. Trying to squeeze out the images that were bursting into his mind from every direction—a collage of them, writhing around, merging together, pulsating. He couldn’t do it.

“Can’t you scourgify?”

“I _could_ scourgify. If I didn’t mind being cleaned out like a cauldron,” she snapped. “However, I’m not actually made of metal. Scourgified hair looks like it’s been lying in a grease trap for . . . “

She stopped when her eyes fell upon the lank locks spilling over his face. Well that explained a lot.

“Anyway, the answer’s ‘no’. I also need some fresh clothes from my room. I can shower there or here. I don’t mind.”

Well he fucking minded. He didn’t want her showering anywhere near him, in any location. But she seemed pretty determined.

“And have you considered how we might travel to your living quarters?” He drew a finger down his raspy chin which had shadowed considerably overnight. Hermione had never seen him anything other than absolutely clean shaven. She found herself quite taken by it, maybe because it wasn’t of his choosing—a subtle loss of control.

“Well, I thought we could possibly walk. You know, one foot in front of the other, in the traditional fashion,” she replied.

He rolled his eyes. This was becoming fucking painful. “And how do you suppose the staff and students of Hogwarts will respond to two Professors _walking around_ holding a pornographic text between them?”

“I’ve thought about that.” Hermione’s face brightened as she sat up. “I’ll cast an illusion spell to make the book look like a basket.”

“A basket.” He looked even more unimpressed than she thought possible. “And who are we supposed to be? Jack and Jill climbing up the hill? Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf?”

Hermione smirked, the latter wasn’t that far from the truth. “I am a recent appointment, struggling to carry around a considerable load of books and whatnot and you are a Professor of considerable experience who has agreed to a new mentorship program and is assisting me with my teaching.”

He peered down his nose at her. _Who was going to believe that bullshit?_

“Or we could just tell everyone we’re lovers,” she suggested.

That got him up. Before she knew it, he was on his feet and had dragged her up with him.

“Make the . . .” his jaw muscles bulged and she knew he wanted to say ‘fucking’ but couldn’t bring himself to “. . . basket.”

With a flick of her wand, she cast the illusory spell. She couldn’t transfigure the book, itself, as the binding curse prevented any direct manipulation. The illusion was more like a superimposition and, when complete, it was pleasingly convincing. They both held the wicker basket by the handle. It was large and filled with a variety of items that looked heavy but weighed nothing.

“It feels like we’re going on a picnic,” she remarked.

This time she heard him loud and clear. ‘For fuck’s sake!”

***

They did receive their fair share of looks. Actually, it was more like gawps and eye-popping stares. But no one dared giggle or even smirk, as Professor Snape’s face was positively thunderous and staff and students, alike, were petrified of being struck down on the spot.

Hermione, however, found it all quite amusing. She smiled and greeted people as they passed, strolling at a leisurely pace which he was forced to match so that he didn’t appear to be bulldozing her.

Eventually they arrived at the room she’d been allocated near Gryffindor Tower and she couldn’t help an inward smirk when Professor Snape entered with her and unceremoniously slammed the door in the faces of a hoard of gaping students.

But the walk of shame seemed to have taken its toll. He looked dreadful. It was becoming increasingly clear to Hermione that he really didn’t cope well with humiliation.

 _Well_ , she thought, _he was in the wrong predicament for that. Pornographic book – check; Stuck to insufferable know-it-all – check; Semi-erect penis seen by insufferable know-it-all – check; Paraded in front of the whole school carrying a basket with the woman he hates like some gormless idiot – check; About to get naked and wash himself left-handed whilst hated woman pretends not to look – check._

He was doing that strange one-handed arm-crossing thing again and tapping his index finger irritably against his shoulder. She decided that the only thing for it was to take the lead. Undoing the basket illusion with her wand, she headed over to a chest of drawers, withdrawing fresh underwear, before moving to the wardrobe for a skirt and blouse. He followed petulantly behind but didn’t utter a word.

When she’d collected everything she needed, she led him into the bathroom. It was only about half the size of his, mainly because it lacked a bath, but the close confines were going to make manoeuvring decidedly problematic.

“Close the door please,” she instructed him.

He pushed it shut but his hand remained pressed against it. She suddenly felt a small jolt of something pass through her. The action was difficult to interpret. If felt like he was either desperate to get away or . . . was trapping her inside. Her breathing quickened as his fingers slowly slid down and he stepped towards her. _Was he trying to intimidate her—to reassert himself?_

She gulped and raised her chin to him. The depths of his obsidian orbs seemed to stretch on forever, but the smouldering motes dancing within, the embers of a burning nimbus, seared into her and she felt her legs start to quake. His shoulders stretched and broadened like unfolding wings. It was Snape at his most imposing—an unfathomable incubus.

“Are you going to have a shower or not?” His eyebrow quirked up.

She let out her breath. _Fucking bastard_. He obviously wasn’t used to a woman taking the lead. It didn’t sit well with his inordinately large, but paradoxically fragile, ego. _Well, he wasn’t the only one who could play the intimidation game._

Turning away, she reached into the shower and flicked on the taps. As the steam began billowing out, she placed one foot on the toilet seat and undid the strap of her sandal before kicking it into the corner. She did the same with the other then, using one hand only, released the buttons at the back of her skirt before trapping it against her thigh with her palm and wiggling her hips to gradually ease it down.

The entire time, her eyes didn’t leave his and she could tell he was taking a beating. Tiny tics and twitches tugged at his face and his almost imperceptible eyebrow movements divulged a parade of passing emotions, the most prevalent being desire. Stepping out of the skirt, she kicked it into the corner before bringing a hand to the top button of her blouse.

She could have easily removed everything with a wave of her wand but the slow reveal was clearly having a deep . . . impact. _Had she woken the sleeping monster?_

Agonizingly slowly, she twisted each button through its hole until the very last allowed the blouse to fall open like a pair of sheer curtains, framing the most tantalizing view he’d ever seen. She must have heard his guttural groan above the hasty patter of the water, as her movements turned from beguiling to downright provocative. Pitching her head back to reveal the soft pale flesh of her long neck she allowed the blouse to slither down, gathering in a pile at her fettered right wrist.

His eyes shuttered as she flicked the clasp at the back of her lace bra, letting it spring away from the firm peaks of her breasts, before sliding the straps down each creamy shoulder to reveal deeply rouged nipples. He was breathing heavily through his mouth, steaming up his lungs. Then she gave a final flick of her wrist and her blouse, bra and knickers dropped, wandlessly, to the moist tiles at her feet.

His eyes, trapped in her thatch of curls, didn’t notice until it was too late. She suddenly yanked back into the steam and slammed the shower door shut, jamming his wrist.

“Fuck!”

“Oh sorry.” She peeked out through the gap. “I forgot you were there.”

She heard further cursing from her depths of her water cave. _Serves him right_. It wasn’t like he hadn’t revelled in intimidating her for almost half of her life.

Attempting to ignore the dark shadow that loomed beyond the glass, she reached for a bar of soap and began to wash herself. It was, however, a little more difficult to ignore his actual hand, which was in the shower with her, still touching hers and still wrapped around that stupid fucking book.

The book, itself, remained dry. Despite her agitation, she found herself entranced by it, watching the water droplets deviate, as if magnetically repelled, from its surface. He’d been right, it was heavily protected by the curse and it seemed, from her reading at least, that the release word or phrase was the only possible way of lifting it.

 _Well that narrowed things down a bit!_ She thought bitterly. _It could only be any word or phrase in any language in the entire world_. She felt the tears welling. _What if they couldn’t work it out? Was this to be her life? Permanently bound to the person who antagonised her most in the world and whom she looked to antagonise, just as mercilessly, in return?_

She glared at those long elegant fingers. Then felt like crying again. They really were beautiful. And, now, practically useless. His magic had been taken from him. She hadn’t really considered how that must be making him feel. _What a bitch_.

Turning awkwardly, she managed to pump shampoo into her palm before massaging it into her tangled hair. It didn’t feel nearly as satisfying one-handed, so she made quick work of rinsing and conditioning, before a final rinse and flicking off the taps.

She chewed her wet bottom lip, almost unable to bear the thought of facing him.

“Would you mind passing me a towel?”

Moments later, the fluffy white cloth appeared in the gap and she plucked it from between his fingers.

“Thankyou.”

Wrapping it around herself to ensure that minimal flesh was visible, she cautiously slid the door open. He was staring at the floor, one hand propped against the wall tiles.

It didn’t take a Legilimens to work out that he was incredibly hurt and angry. Desperately wanting to apologise, but not being able to bring herself to do it, she stepped from the stall.

“Scourgify me.” His voice was low and emotionless and he refused to look at her.

She couldn’t do it.

“Professor I . . . “

“Scourgify me!” he shouted, picking up her wand from a nearby cabinet and slamming it into her hand.

She was trembling, on the verge of tears, but somewhat emboldened by the smooth wood of the wand between her fingers.

Drawing a shuddering breath, she forced herself to look into those eyes—filled with accusation and pain, old and deep.

“I made a mistake. I’m sorry.” She blurted out. “I’m really not feeling myself. I shouldn’t have done it. I was just . . . “

She swallowed with difficulty.

“You . . . well you . . . you really need a shower,” she tailed off.

His stance was rigid, muscles wound like springs. His distrust burned into her. She was never going to convince him.

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, then slowly, gently, she began. Having spent so much time with Ginny, who had the most sensitive skin in the world, she had learned quite a few cleansing spells that didn’t involve the harsh scouring of scourgify. Murmuring spell after spell she teased the knots from his hair, cleansing the strands with Aqueus and Saponify, then moving to his skin, casting Exfoliatus and Dermatticum which lifted and rippled his clothes in waves. He initially stiffened, but gradually began to relax, the magical ministrations slowly ebbing away the tension.

By the time she had worked her way down his entire body, he had visibly softened. Now he simply looked sad.

Without speaking, she stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder, gently guiding him to sit on the closed toilet seat. Despite the intense frown that worried his brow, he acquiesced. She filled the nearby basin with hot water, then discarded her wand for her razor, replacing the blade with a fresh one. One handed, she squirted shaving gel into her palm before carefully approaching him.

The first touch of the cool gel caused him to jerk away but she stood, motionless, waiting for him, and eventually he relaxed back into her palm. Gently, she lathered the gel down his cheeks and over his chin, sculpting it around the contours and planes of his face and neck until the skin was coated liberally in a creamy film.

Starting at his temple, she drew the blade down, leaning against him slightly due to the difficult angle and not being able to support herself with her other hand. With steady, fluid strokes, she carved tracts through the creamy bristles, leaving silky swathes of skin in her wake. His Adam’s apple bobbed nervously as she glided up his neck, but she managed to navigate the undulations without losing her confidence. Finally, as she leaned in close to negotiate she ridges around his nose and mouth, she felt him tense against her, but she was careful and his rhythmic breathing gradually returned.

After completing the final stroke, she dropped the razor into the basin and reached for a small towel, using it to gently wipe away the residue clinging to his chin. He watched her intently before bringing his hand up, trailing his fingers over hers, before grasping the towel himself and dragging it down his neck.

She turned away from him, a deep shaky breath capturing her chest. The whole operation had been conducted in silence except for the thudding heartbeat that pulsed incessantly through her ears. Now that she was no longer focused on the process, she was on the verge of being overwhelmed by the intimacy of it all.

“I’m going to get dressed now,” she said, her voice tight.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw him turn away and quickly used her wand to dry herself and pull on her clothes, before buttoning and buckling, then detangling her hair.

“All done.”

She ventured a small smile when he swiveled to face her. And when he responded with a slow nod, unguarded, she sighed with relief. He had forgiven her.

 


	4. The Gear that Grinds

“How are we supposed to do it together?” Hermione looked down at Severus who was sitting awkwardly on her bed.

“You go first and then I go, I suppose.” He looked just as uncomfortable as she was.

“But if you take too long, I won’t get a chance to finish off,” she sighed.

“I’m more concerned about you getting carried away and sucking up too much of my polyjuice.”

They were speaking, of course, about the difficulties with co-teaching. Having flooed Headmistress McGonagall to explain (most of) their dilemma, she had instructed them that they had no option but to co-teach their classes the following day.

“So I suppose after I introduce my second years to the history of Muggle television and radio, you can explain to them how they both work.”

He raised a scornful eyebrow. “Division of labour along gender lines I see. How very liberated of you Professor Granger.”

She glared at him, wondering how difficult it would be to drag his body around if she happened to kill him.

“I’m more than happy to discuss how they work, if you would prefer to do the introduction.”

“Do you know how they work?” He leaned back on his outstretched arm.

“I will work out how they work and then I will . . .”

“Never mind,” he huffed, irritably. “I’ll do it.”

Hermione bit back a nasty response because she really didn’t have a clue and certainly didn’t want to stand up in front of him, joined to him, in front of a class, _how fucking ridiculous,_ and pretend that she did.

“And then I can help to prepare the ingredients for your potions class,” she said as cordially as she could manage.

“Superb,” he muttered, standing abruptly. “It’s time we left.”

Hermione had had enough of his belittlement. She wasn’t stupid or hopeless and she didn’t appreciate being made to feel so. She continued to fume until he suddenly bent his face close to hers and raised his eyebrows. “I imagine we’re continuing with the impressive and convincing basket-carrying ceremony?”

She sighed and cast the illusory spell. _He really was a prick_.

“I want to take notes at the library and I’m sick of these stupid quills,” she grumbled. “Can you grab a fountain pen out of my bedside drawer?”

He bent down and pulled the drawer open and that’s when she died. Rolling around amongst the pens, batteries and other assorted items was the shiniest, reddest, torpedo-iest vibrator in the world.

He paused for a moment.

“Which is the fountain pen?” he asked, not looking at her.

“The black one,” she squeaked, before loudly clearing her throat.

“Not . . . the . . . “

“I’ll get it!” she lunged forward and snatched up a pen before slamming the drawer and hauling him towards the door.

She knew he was smirking without even looking at him. Waves of smirk were emanating from him. And her face was as red as that fucking vibrator. _Fuck him!_ She hadn’t even had a chance to use it yet.

***

They spent another tiring day reading in the library, holding a basket, and not talking much. Bathroom visits were respectful and food was consumed as necessary. She knew they were both thinking about the vibrator.

The words of text after text swam before her eyes:

‘Examples of permanent book binds date back to the _Vibrator_ era . . .”

‘Some of the most powerful and malevolent binding curses were perpetrated by Lord _Vibrator_. . .”

She released a slow breath. It might be time to call it a night.

“I’m sleeping in my own bed tonight,” she informed him as she closed the final book in her pile.

“Are we?” he responded, snidely.

She peered at him blearily, taking in the deep shadows under his eyes. He was clearly as exhausted as she was.

“I don’t want a fight,” she sighed. “I just need sleep.”

He drew in a deep breath, huffing it out in one word. “Fine.”

They executed their unenthusiastic basket-laden ambling in silence and, even when they arrived at her room, words were employed only when necessary. She assisted him to remove his coat with a seam-splitting spell and he proceeded to remove his boots and trousers.

_Black satin boxers?_ _What lay beneath those murky depths? Shut up, Hermione!_ She scowled as she turned away from him, using her wand to undress herself and slip on a soft cotton nightie.

Climbing across the King-sized bed (she’d transfigured it so that they could be as far away from each other as possible), Hermione found herself moving with all of the elegance of a baby elephant trying to get out of a mud pool. One-handed crawling didn't happen to be her forte and she fell on her face before finally lurching across to her side.

_No doubt he'd copped an eyeful,_ she thought as her hand flopped across her brow in exhaustion. She didn't care. It wasn’t like he hadn’t already seen the goods.

He, on the other hand, slipped between the sheets after her, white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, like a panther that had been taking lessons in seduction. _How did he move like that?_

Flicking the Lumos spell off her wand so she didn’t have to witness his feline grace any longer, she lay in the dark listening to him. His breathing was pretty quiet for someone with such a big nose. _Why was she always compelled to think nasty things when she felt inferior?_ _Was it some pathetic attempt to level the playing field? Or was she simply trying to avoid the truth of the matter – that she found him so achingly sexy that she had trouble even looking at him._

Now she couldn’t go to sleep. ‘ _Achingly_ ’ had brought back the ache. _Maybe Mr Boats would have something to say on the matter?_

“Do you mind if I read?”

“No.”

She didn’t tell him what she was going to read. He probably already knew.

Casting Lumos, she rolled onto her side and flipped their hands over so she could see the pages. His eyes were closed but his, now spread, fingers supported the book pages as she turned them. She could see his wrist just above her line of reading, his translucent skin accentuated by the blue glow. Shaking her head in annoyance, she admonished herself. She wasn’t there to ogle his wrist, she had more important things to do.  

_Chapter 2 – Foreplay_

_Bring it on,_ she thought, glancing at him to make sure she hadn’t been seen her licking her lips.

Skipping the introduction and description of the brewing process, she turned straight to the most interesting part – spell application.

_The arousal potion is designed to enhance female stimulation. It combines elements of engorgement and retraction and is designed to be applied, by dropper, directly to the clitoris._

Her eyes flicked nervously back to his. Still closed.  

_The effects of this potion are dose-dependent, thus it is wise to apply only one drop at a time until the desired level of clitoral enhancement is achieved._

Clitoral enhancement? _She’d take some of that._

_The engorgement element causes local vasodilation, increasing blood flow to the region and enhancing clitoral swelling by up to four fold. The retraction element causes a tightening of the clitoral hood, such that the glans of the clitoris protrudes for maximum exposure. Please note that direct stimulation of the engorged clitoris in this position may induce sensations ranging from extreme pleasure to severe pain. It is recommended that all stimulation, at least initially, is of an indirect nature. These might include gentle rubbing of the surrounding region, a cooling breath or the application of a judicious tongue._

_Gods she wanted a judicious tongue!_  

The thought of a slick pink muscle insistently probing at her straining, oversized clitoris made her abdomen clench, and a stream of wetness flooded her knickers.

She was forced to breathe through her mouth to stop herself sounding like the Hogwart’s Express.

_Maybe this hadn’t been the best idea_.    

His eyes were still closed but she didn’t think he was asleep. No doubt he could feel her breathing, even if he couldn’t hear her. She suddenly felt a surge of fear, the last thing she wanted was for him to open those black orbs and see her, catch her, flushed and heaving. Flicking her wand, she cast them into darkness, slowly sinking back onto her pillow.

_Okay,_ she told herself _, time for sleep_ . . . _Hah!_ _Yeah, right._

She still held her wand in her hand. If she cast a silencing spell she might just get away with it. As quietly as she could, she whispered the silencing spell and then cast vibration on her wand, causing it to thrum away steadily between her fingers. It wasn’t perfect but it would have to do.

Carefully, she eased the shuddering wand under the covers and slid it slowly down her stomach until the tip dipped under the elastic of her knickers. She continued to push it through her pubic hair where it buzzed and tickled before slipping it between her . . .

“You can use your . . . thing if you want,” his deep voice rent the air.

_Oh shit!_

_Not her thing!_

She held her breath.

“Do you want me to get it?”

_Oh Gods!_

She was frozen, her wand idling away at the juncture of her labia. He was waiting for a response. _Of course she wanted it. But how could she? With him lying right there?_ _It was beyond mortifying to consider. But then again . . . he’d offered. On Gods! It was too weird. All of it. But she was soooo turned on._

In the end, she decided to leave the decision-making to her vagina.

Withdrawing the wand, warm and moist, from her knickers, she dropped the vibrate and silencing spells and responded with a tight rasp.

“Yes please.”

She heard him feeling for the drawer in the dark. She wasn’t going to cast lumos and hold her labia-smeared wand over his face to help him see. No. She would wait, in agony, while he located 'her thing' by touch.

Eventually she heard the drawer open and his hand trailing through the miscellany. She could imagine those skilful fingers, so adept at advanced potion-making and powerful spell-casting, now engaging in that wonderfully rewarding endeavour of vibrator recovery. She could hear him rattling through the smaller objects. No doubt he would be putting his razor sharp mind to good use— thinking, _‘Nope, not torpedo-y enough_.’

She closed her eyes, wondering why her mind’s incessant chatter seemed determined to make the most embarrassing moment of her life even worse. After more frenetic scrabbling, there was silence. He’d either given up or located it. She had a feeling that, no matter how long it took, he wasn’t going to give up.

The room was pitch black and she wasn’t entirely sure what was happening until something hard and smooth suddenly hit her in the face.

Feeling around, she located the tapered cylinder, like a gift from the dildo fairy, under her pillow.

“Thanks . . . I’ll just cast silence . . . “

“No.”

“Sorry?”

“Don’t . . . you don’t need to.”

_She didn’t need to? AKA: he didn’t want her to. AKA: he wanted to listen to her get herself off. AKA: WTF?_

She stroked the vibrator against her cheek, thinking, then realised how weird it was and stopped. _He wanted to hear her come?_ She flushed with embarrassment. That wasn’t something she would have had on her list of likely occurrences only two days before. _Then again,_ _she was quite desperate to come herself, with or without an audience_. _Could it be that bad?_ _Surely she could be quiet-ish?_

Taking a deep breath, she flicked the switch on the bottom of the cylinder and it started to vibrate (as vibrators are wont to do). She could try shoving it down her knickers, maintaining a semblance of what might pass under those circumstances as decorum, but she figured that she didn’t have a lot of dignity left to salvage. Her cunt had waited long enough.

Hitching up her nightie and pushing down her knickers until she could kick them out of the bed, she spread her legs and introduced the tip of the reverberating rocket directly to her clitoris. No . . . mucking. . . around. And the sensation was utterly . . . divine. Her eyelids fluttered closed and she lifted her chin, groaning at the ceiling. _That was too loud already_.

Gently she massaged the tapered end around her sensitive nub, sending pulses of pleasure buzzing through her lips and tugging at her core. Sliding the smooth shaft down her fleshy gully, she dipped the tip into her opening which was already salivating salaciously, ready to suck it in, whole. The smooth, frictionless surface, combined with her generous lubrication, was a match made in heaven, allowing her to thrust, fast and deep, into her sopping channel.  

“Unnnhhh!” she winced with pleasure at the trembling fullness.

Beginning to pant, she pushed and pulled the shaft in long strokes, squeezing it inside so firmly that the pulses radiated through her pelvis. Her pumping sped up and her moans became needy. It was getting more and more difficult to drive the slippery pole between her tightening muscles, as her juices were running freely off the end, making it difficult to maintain her one-handed grip.

With some effort, she tugged it out, like a sword from an amorous scabbard, and brought the slick shaft back to her clit, letting it flutter against her trigger as she keened for release. Then, positioning the pole lengthways down her slit, she slid it up and down, stimulating her clit and lips at once, while occasionally digging the shuddering tip back into her hole, which was constricting incrementally on each pass, winding like a spring.

Finally, she thrust the shaft back inside herself in one full stroke and cried out, realising that she hadn’t thought about him at all until that moment. But her attention wasn't jolted by the racket she was making alone—she could feel him, that finger, rubbing against hers, gently, rhythmically.

“Fuck!”

She came in a cacophony of escalating shouts, her channel pulsating around the rigid tube, trying to eject it through her slippery digits. Bucking around, she was dimly aware that his hand was on her thigh, not moving, just holding her through the violent convulsions. Eventually her body stopped bouncing, but her insides continued to flutter and grab as she felt his fingers gently caressing her inner thigh.

Drawing in ragged breaths, she felt around urgently for her wand—her entire half of the bed needed to be scourgified. Patting around, she finally found it. And grabbed it. _Oh shit!_ She thought _. That’s not a wand! That’s Nessy!_

 


	5. The Snake that Shines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all you lovely people who left reviews. Please keep them coming as it keeps me writing.

Her hand was gripping his cock. Tightly. _What did she think it was, a wand?_

She smirked into the darkness, feeling decidedly smug at having landed herself the Cock Ness Monster. He’d obviously enjoyed the performance almost as much as she had. But, if it weren’t for the fact that she could feel his life blood coursing through the veins bulging under her fingers, his deathly quiet might have made her wonder if he’d fallen asleep. Or dropped off the twig.

“I can take care of this if you like.”

She heard a quiet intake of breath. Followed by more silence. And then more.

_Had he actually fallen asleep? Perhaps he had narcolepsy? Sleep apnoea? Locked-in syndrome?_

“If I like?” His sudden, silky voice in her ear made her squirm.

“Mmmhmmm,” she affirmed, not trusting herself to speak.

More silence. She didn’t want to do anything until he’d given the go ahead so she just lay there, gripping him, like a statue holding a blunt weapon.

He winced in the darkness. _If this was her technique, then maybe he would pass._

“You’ll need to help me,” she informed him. “I don’t know how you like it done.”

He raised an eyebrow—for his benefit only.

“How I like it . . . ‘done’?”

Even in the dark, she could imagine his expressive mouth wrapping around this phrase. The final position would have his tongue resting on his top palette, his lips parted.

Hermione gritted her teeth. _No Hermione! There will be no tongues!_ _A hand will do perfectly well._ Okay, maybe two hands would have been better—they were pretty small after all and, well, he was quite . . .

She suddenly felt his large hand close over her small one and her breath hitched as he gently guided her up the length of his velvety shaft. Relaxing her grip, she let him glide her over the foreign, yet familiar, terrain of knots and ridges.

He was so warm and soft. Like Crookshanks as a kitten. But he made her feel something that Crooks never did (which was probably just as well). And her mouth suddenly filled with saliva. _I said no!_

As he drew her in a slow, steady rhythm, up and down, squeezing her fingers in pulsatile waves, her tongue responded with distracting circular movements on the arch of her mouth.

 _It’s not like cocks tasted particularly nice anyway_ , she told herself. _All musty and musky and_ . . . more saliva. She swallowed.

 _And semen was worse!_ _What did they say? Semen tastes like what you eat? Well, call her Professor Picky, but kipper and coffee come wasn’t something she had a particular hankering for._

 _Still_ . . . she stifled a moan, beneath that silky skin, his cock was so . . . fucking . . . hard. It made her want to . . .

_No! Even if it didn’t taste like kippers and coffee, come could hardly be considered a delicacy! It’s not like you would order it as a palette cleanser in some fancy restaurant._

_‘And for you Mademoiselle?’ The waiter would raise an eyebrow._

_‘Oh, the semen granita looks nice . . . ‘_

_He was too quiet_. _Too controlled_. _Maybe he needed some ‘encouragement’ to open up his pipes?_

Sighing, she realised that it was an exercise in futility. Her tongue was already limbering up. It had committed. She would be going down, mouth to monster and, she suspected, before long she’d have it roaring.

 _Well, this is hardly inspiring_ , he thought. _A small, limp hand being squeezed like an empty glove against his cock. He’d rather do it himself. Maybe he should pretend to fall asleep?_

Suddenly, the bedcovers were thrown back and, before he knew what was happening, his hand was pulled from his cock and replaced by . . .

“Oh Gods!!”

 _That’s the way!_ She grinned as she engulfed his knob, her tongue snaking down before taking its sweet time to explore every bulge and crevice it could reach. As she pumped the rigid shaft expertly with her fist, she dipped the tip of her tongue into his delicate slit, like a hummingbird sipping at his nectar, drawing forth a guttural groan that seemed to originate from his clenching abdomen. The raw carnality of his vocalisations, and the needy hand that began rhythmically clenching and releasing her hair, injected a fresh surge of lusty conviction to her movements and she took him deeply into her.

_Merlin! She’d been foxing him. Where the fuck did she learn to . . ._

“Uuuuuhhhhh!” Her teasing tongue had located his frenulum and was tugging at it mercilessly.

_Gods!_

His fingers suddenly delved into her hair and his hips thrust up to meet her. _No you don’t!_ She pulled back and waited for his bucking to stop. This was her show and she would be the one calling the shots. When he’d settled, she set off again, exploring in the dark, lapping and sucking at the engorged flesh from base to tip and back, until she knew it well enough to find her way by touch alone. Then she trailed her tongue down the bumpy ridges of his scrotum before licking one testicle into her mouth, continuing to slide her hand in deft, rhythmic strokes over his saliva-slicked member.

His moans, deep and breathy, filled the room and she found it both erotic and moving. This man, so uptight and proper, and buttoned up to the hilt, giving way to his base instincts, now grunting and hissing with abandon, not a button in sight.

The tightening of his scrotum against her tongue told her it was just about time to make Nessy give up its secrets. Allowing the nugget to pop from her mouth, she engulfed his fleshy helmet with ardour, swirling her tongue around it as she changed her grip from the ‘stimulator’ to ‘the ejector’.

He’d lost all sense of his body. He’d become one giant pulsing cock, supported by some vestigial limbs and an even more emaciated brain. And he also seemed to have lost control of his vocal cords, the one part of his anatomy he’d enjoyed complete and replete control over his entire life.

 _She was relentless_. _And so frighteningly adept_. And yet, between the wet sucking sounds, she was moaning. Like she actually enjoyed it—like she wanted him.

And that thought was his undoing. He cried out as he came. Arching into her, his taut muscles clenching and undulating around her soft mane. And in the darkness he could hear her gulping furiously, swallowing the most intimate of him—and he felt his chest tighten with a yearning, dusty and forgotten.

Hermione flopped back onto her pillow, her hair stuck to her face in fuzzy tentacles.

 _Mmmm, not bad! She wouldn’t be averse to throwing back another Snape semen granita if the opportunity arose._ She rubbed her hand across her sweaty face and wiped her come-slicked lips. _But would it be on offer again?_

He hadn’t said a word the whole time. Nothing intelligible anyway. Maybe he hadn’t been keen? He’d sounded keen. She sighed and turned away from him as far as her hobbled hand would allow. _Whatever_. She was too tired to tie herself in knots trying to work him out.  

It didn’t matter that she’d turned away. Nor that it was dark. He knew her face better than his own. He just wondered how he could ever look upon her in the same way again—now that she had awoken something in him, something that terrified him beyond reason.

***

He was torn at every moment between running away and ravaging her. Clearly the running away was going to be difficult. _And the ravaging?_ Well, the fact that every movement she had made from the moment she slouched out of bed that morning screamed ‘ _piss off_ ’ suggested that it might not be overwhelmingly well received.

He wasn’t dense. He knew why she was doing up the buttons on his frock coat so fast that they were at risk of pinioning his Adam’s apple like a scrotum caught in a zipper. But at the same time, he felt immobilised by the mix of emotions that were bursting, unbidden, from bubbling pits deep inside him.

 _What the fuck’s wrong with him?_ She was more than a little annoyed that she had pulled out all her best moves and given herself wrist strain after her one-handed marathon, only for him to have spent the entire morning practically mute and to be standing before her now, staring, like he was having an absence seizure.

“Do you plan to deliver your part of the lesson in mime too?” she asked as she dragged him over toward her dressing table to do her hair.

 _Now the snarkiness begins_. He gave an inward smirk. _She should know better than to try to out-snark him._

“Mime? No, I actually have a firm grasp of my topic,” he said mildly.

“That remains to be seen,” she muttered, as she pulled a brush roughly through her hair. “I suppose mime would require some level of emotion, or even a vague attempt at something slightly more expressive than a boiled potato, which might be a bit of a stretch for you.”

 _Merlin! She was pissed off._ He wondered how far he could push her.

“I wish you’d informed me that mime was your usual mode of delivery,” he watched her in the mirror. “I would have made a special effort to attend your demonstration of Muggle electric toothbrushes.”

Her mouth fell open. _What the fuck? What was he trying to say? That he thought it was funny? Was everything just a big joke now that he was all buttoned-up and proper again?_

Her nostrils flared as she tried to maintain control. “Unfortunately, _Professor_ , I suspect I would have had to ask you to leave as the noises you would have, no doubt, been making upon viewing my demonstration, would have been deemed unsuitable for a student audience.”

His back stiffened noticeably, before she pulled him over to her cupboard and removed an orange scarf to combat the inevitable chill of the dungeons.

“I see you’ve finally found a use for that mangy cat of yours.” He looked disparagingly at the furry bundle in her hands.

Her fingers clenched around the material as if it were his neck. “I beg your pardon?”

He raised an eyebrow in mock puzzlement. “I thought you enjoyed witty repartee.”

 _Witty yes. Fuckwitty no_. She glared at him for as long as she dared before she knew they would be running late.

Without another word, she spun on her heel and stormed out the door, his long strides easily keeping up.

***

Hermione would have been quite pleased with herself if she didn’t have His Royal Snarkiness in attendance. She had managed to procure a Muggle video player and television set and was magically electrifying them in preparation for her demonstration. Severus, meanwhile was trying to execute some left-handed chalk drawings on the board. The second year students, however, seemed less interested in the devices and drawings, than in watching the small bushy-haired Professor and tall dark-haired Professor lurching about the classroom, as if engaged in some sort of uncoordinated barn dance.

Finally, they finished preparations and Hermione gave her introduction while Severus sat on a chair behind her, frowning, holding the basket. After delivering a brief history of radio and television through the ages, she proceeded to swap positions but Severus was so tall that she couldn’t sit. Instead, she stood behind him like some unconvincing extra beholding a superbly accomplished performer. Because that was, indeed, how he delivered the lesson.

His voice, rich and mellifluous, carried to the far corners of the room as he spoke with authority about the intricacies of electricity production, electromagnetic frequencies, sound waves, cathode ray tubes and even the anatomy of the eye and ear. She was so entranced by his vast knowledge and enthralling delivery that she imagined him, again, an actor in the spotlight, delivering a soliloquy, just to her. And she melted. _Damn him!_

By the time he’d finished, she was so distracted that she had very little to add except for her demonstration. She turned the television on and pressed play on the remote control to start the video. It was one from her personal collection. Her favourite actually. A movie made a few years previously called ‘ _Mesmer_ ’. She’d watched it so many times that there were annoying flickers in some parts—parts she’d rewound and watched over and over again—but she definitely wouldn’t be showing those scenes today.

Now she watched him, the actor Alan Rickman, mesmerising, as he ‘treated’ the blind girl, and wished, again, that it were her. And as she watched, she was suddenly struck by a surge of familiarity, he reminded her of someone but she couldn’t . . . quite . . . place it.

“Couldn’t you have found something a little more appropriate,” Severus spoke into her ear.

“Have you seen it?”

“Yes I’ve . . . seen it,” he muttered.

“Well, then you’d know that nothing actually happens. He hardly touches them. It’s just his voice that . . .”

He arched a sardonic eyebrow and she flushed in response before brushing him out of the way. “Thank you class for today. I hope you learned a lot and I’d just like to thank Professor Snape for his assistance.”

But no one seemed to hear her, twenty-four pairs of popping eyes were fixed on the screen watching Mesmer through a frenzy of flickering tape, passionately kissing the not-so-blind girl in the garden. Snatching up the remote control, Hermione flicked off the screen before hurriedly waving them out the door.

***

“Hold them still,” Hermione muttered.

She and Severus were standing side by side at his desk while a class of first year students worked in pairs to prepare their potions.

“Perhaps if you could manage to cut them straight?” Severus suggested in a less than helpful tone.

He was holding a bunch of roots with his left hand, while Hermione chopped them with a sharp scalpel in her right.

“You keep releasing them when I get near.”

“Maybe I don’t want your errant cutting divesting me of a finger.”

“Maybe you should be more concerned about your snide remarks divesting me of the desire to help you,” she replied, glancing up to make sure no one was listening to them.

Severus huffed but grasped the roots with a little more conviction.

She leant close to his ear. “It’s as if you’re avoiding touching me.”

He paused before responding. “I don’t need to touch you.”

“What do you mean you don’t need to?” Hermione could feel her hackles rising again.  

“I can touch you . . . without touching you.” His voice dropped impossibly low.  

Hermione shook her head. He really was a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in a total mindfuck.

She threw him a look that told him as much.

For Hermione, his slanted gaze in the direction of the students should have been the first sign of trouble. But it wasn’t until he tilted his head slightly towards her, not enough to suggest he was doing anything other than focusing on the task at hand but enough for him to address her, lips barely moving, that she realised what was happening. His slick, creamy voice was low enough to get lost within the general hubbub of classroom activities but perfectly clear for her to pick up every . . . single . . . word.

“Last night when you were pleasuring yourself,” he breathed. “I imagined that it was my cock sliding through your juices.” And the word ‘juices’ was enough to suddenly release a squirt of hers. “And when I listened carefully, I could hear the change in tone as that instrument slid inside you—as it was clamped inside the walls of your pussy. And my hand pulled my cock in perfect time with each . . . thrust. Every time you pushed up into yourself, I pushed inside you too. My hips were rocking deeper and deeper as you plunged it further and further into your clenching cunt.”

 _Fuck that word felt beautiful as it bit into her_. Hermione moaned quietly, both pleading with him to stop and begging him to continue.  

“I could hear your arousal. Not just your panting. But the wet sucking sounds of you pumping into that ripe, dripping hole. That’s when I licked my hand. My mouth was full of saliva. And I rubbed that juice, your juice, all over my cock, marinating it."

Hermione dropped the scalpel and pressed her hand against the wooden desktop, her head bowed and hair hanging over her face, shoulders heaving.

He leaned closer, his voice gravelly. “When you pulled it out to tickle your clitoris, my tongue was out too, rubbing against my lips, your lips. I was licking and sucking, probing and plunging, tongue-fucking you.”

Hermione bit her lip to stifle a groan. Her knickers were soaked through and her thighs damp with the overflow. Her pussy was clenching and she knew she wasn’t far off.

“And you felt me, didn’t you? My finger rubbing against yours. Only it wasn’t rubbing against you, it was rubbing inside you. Two fingers up against your front wall, massaging that spot, pressing that release button, and feeling you tightening around me—the tension building as I rubbed, knowing you were about to come. And suddenly the explosive contractions, shuddering and clenching, as your cunt gushed, squirted, flooding my palm with your release . . . “

“Gods!” Hermione cried out as she came, her legs buckling under her.

Severus cleared his throat and looked at the stunned students. “Don’t worry. Professor Granger has just cut herself. I will take her out the back . . . for some . . . treatment.”

He practically carried her to the back of the classroom where he opened the store room door.

“Do you have your wand?” he murmured.

“Mmmm?” Hermione was still in a daze.

“Cast silence,” he instructed her.

“What?”

“Cast fucking silence,” he hissed, slamming the door behind them.

She did as instructed. Then he pounced. Crushing her against the shelves, he mashed his mouth against hers. She opened to him and their tongues battled, licking and sucking and swallowing. She rolled against him and jars came toppling off shelves but they continued to devour one another hungrily, desperately, as if the answers to each one’s needs lay inside the other, just out of reach. He growled and sucked as she whimpered and licked for minute after minute, ingredients raining down on their heads. And finally, they realised they’d been gone too long.

Hermione cast a quick tidying spell on both of them, but when they returned to the classroom, faces red and chaffed and hair tousled like circus clowns with badly removed makeup, even the first years weren’t fooled.

“It was quite severe and required more . . . treatment . . . than expected.” Severus frowned, daring any of them to suggest otherwise, even by their expressions.

Hermione noticed ingredients hanging from Severus’ hair and the sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“You might want to dismiss them,” she whispered.

Severus frowned. “But there’s five minutes of class time left.”

“You really need to shower. . . I could help you if you like.”

He remembered what had happened the last time she’d offered to ‘help’ him.

“Class dismissed!” he bellowed.

 

 


	6. The Black that Blinds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the love again. It got me through another chapter. Whew!

As it turned out, Severus wasn’t in need of a lot of ‘help’ after all. In fact, he seemed to have snapped out of his annoyingly distant state and, in Hermione’s mind, had finally grown a set of balls. Perhaps after revealing his masturbation fantasy (although from now on it was definitely also going to be her masturbation fantasy) he’d concluded that he didn’t have too much to lose. Whatever it was, he’d clearly decided to take the lead and Hermione found herself in the unusual predicament of feeling sexually anxious.

It wasn’t like she’d been the college ‘broomstick’ but she definitely knew her way around a man’s anatomy and was quite proficient in a diverse array of skills, as she’d demonstrated the previous evening. But this was a man who could, literally, make her come using only words. A real life Mesmer. And, as he pulled her, basketfully, into his chambers, she began to wonder how big his bag was and how many other tricks it contained.

They had managed to make it all of one step through his door before he pushed the book against the wall, trapping her hand with it so she was caught, like a mouse, under the gaze of a particularly ravenous cat. But, unlike the unbridled passion of the storeroom, his demeanour was one of simmering restraint, gradually leaning in to her until his mouth hovered just above hers. Rather than closing the distance, however, he tilted his nose until it was nuzzling against the side of hers, drawing the smooth tip down inexorably slowly, his cool exhalations sliding over her upper lip.

She’d only come a matter of fifteen minutes earlier but already he had her core clenching and aching in anticipation. Those deliciously sensuous lips teased her, parted seductively, so close that their warmth radiated over hers, but still hanging back, a barrier of frantic tension separating them. She could feel her pulse ticking through her bottom lip, exquisitely engorged in preparation for union, but left agonizingly bereft. And just as she was about to lunge at him, to capture his lips like a mating pair, he placed a firm hand just below her throat, his thumb and index fingers splaying across her collar bones, holding her back, pressed against the wall. _Was there any such thing as a clit tease?_

Her breaths were so impossibly shallow that she wondered if her brain was getting any oxygen at all, while the hand against her chest was operating her like a bellows, massaging in gentle rhythmic waves that radiated throughout her entire body. Her mind started to float. She daren’t breathe too hard in case his lips floated away like petals on a breeze.

But then, feather-light he finally alighted. Only one minute point of contact, mouth open, the moist silky caress fluttering against hers—once, twice and no more.

She moaned into the cavern of his mouth, which magnified it like an echo chamber, reflecting her need back into her. Then he touched down again, ghosting against her, before scooping his mouth under her bottom lip and gliding his sweet, succulent tongue across the trembling surface. She daren’t move while his hand continued to stay her, and so her lips hung, parted, as he gently slid over and probed between them.

Slowly seeping across her chest, his fingers twisted around until they were aligned above her breast, and it was their smooth descent under the sheer neckline of her blouse that finally released her from stasis, giving her permission to respond. Folding her lips around the tip of his tongue, she sucked it gently into her mouth, caressing it with her own, before releasing it to capture more, lapping up mouthfuls of flesh until she was locked onto the fullness of his lips, where she began licking, tasting and exploring every part of him.

His visceral groan injected an urgency into her movements and she plunged her tongue deep into him, delving, thrusting, fucking, as he’d described his tongue doing to her.  

Meanwhile, his fingers had slipped down to graze the taut nipple straining against the lace of her bra. Each pass of his fingertips jolted her, making her breath catch behind her thrusting tongue. Her legs began to tremble and when he suddenly pinched her nipple between his fingertips, she cried out into his mouth and he caught her in his arms.

Scooping her up, one handed, the elbow of his bound arm hooked against her knee, he carried her easily. It was an impressive show of physical strength and she found herself melting into the hard, sinewy muscles that pressed against her.

He carried her into the bathroom before kicking the door shut. But, rather than setting her on the ground, he moved directly to the tiled wall, pressing her to it so that her face was almost on a level with his. Slowly, he drew his knee up the tiles until his thigh was resting between her legs, holding her in place. The pressure of that firm muscular saddle grinding against her swollen pussy sent her body into overdrive and her breaths came in shuddering gasps.

Leaning in close to her, scorching a steamy trail across her flushed skin with the heat of his gaze, he suddenly lunged at her lips, capturing them in a writhing mass of carnal hunger that sucked another moan from her depths. Forcing her mouth open with his tongue, he slipped one long, elegant digit in next to it, and she immediately responded by tilting her head and sucking the new arrival into the soft cavern of her mouth. He drew back to watch her devour it, licking, sucking and bobbing her head to run her lips up and down its length. That mouth. He could now see the treatment that her beautiful, sensuous, talented mouth had given his cock and the straining member in his trousers took another shot of blood, becoming impossibly, painfully, hard.

Slipping a second finger into her mouth he hooked the two around into the inner wall of her cheek and pulled gently to tilt her head further to the side, exposing the elegant slope of her neck, moist with perspiration. As she laved around and between the two digits in her mouth, he bent his head to her fluttering pulse and licked it. Her breasts rose into him, then further with each grazing nip that he placed on a sinuous trail up her sensitive flesh, until he was feasting upon the tantalizing juxtaposition of softness and rigidity at the juncture with her jaw.

Nuzzling upwards, his nose and then his tongue found her earlobe, licking under and around it, before sucking it into his mouth and flicking it with the tip of his tongue, just as, she knew, he would a clitoris. She was just as confident that she knew where he would go next. Like an animal pinned out on a dissection board—he had one of her hands trapped by the book, his fingers securely hooked into her mouth, and a knee wedged against her pussy, exposing her so that he could play with her as he wished. And she loved it.

After lapping and nipping at her delicate earlobe until it was slick and swollen, he felt he had sensitised her sufficiently, delving his hot, wet muscle directly into the tight hole. She jerked, growling, and bit down on his fingers.

His lips quirked up around his writhing tongue, as he pulled his fingers from her mouth. _She was ready_. Although the spreading damp of her pussy against his thigh might have been indication enough.

“Remove our clothes,” he instructed her.

She was so aroused that her blood seemed to have been redistributed away from her brain. Mind reeling, wrist limp, words slurred, she cast spell after spell and, since he hadn’t specified an order she, naturally, removed his first.   

Peeling away the dark jacket like aubergine skin, she followed with his white shirt, then his black trousers, which took some tugging to drag them out from under her pussy. Admittedly, she probably tugged them more than necessary but the sensation of the woollen fibres repeatedly abrading her clit had been just too exquisite.

The final article for removal was his black satin boxers which, distorted by his jutting erection, had taken on a distinct anvil shape. Releasing the seams, she let the rear panel drop to the ground, while the other draped across his cock like a shiny magician’s cape, waiting for the big reveal.

“Get on with it,” he growled, knowing exactly what she was up to.

Whisking the material away with a flick of her wand, she had her first proper look at the Cock Ness Monster, fully erect and swaying majestically below her.

Until now, Hermione had thought that the combination of full-body nudity with shoes was about as erotic as Filch in a G-string. But now, appraising Snape’s lean muscularity in the flickering lamp light, the smattering of dark hair on his chest and adorning his magnificent cock, with his black tailored boots open at the ankles, in sex action pose, like Adonis, taut and ready, she felt a fresh wave of juice leak onto his thigh.   

As she ogled his body, he leaned into her vision and raised a ‘hurry up’ eyebrow. Quickly flicking further spells, she let her clothes slide off in a waterfall of fabrics, leaving her naked except for her low heels which she kicked off, seductively, one at a time.

He’d seen her breasts, briefly, when she’d undressed in front of him the first time. But now they were only inches from him, and his eyes shuttered with desire at his smouldering gaze slid down the soft ripeness of her creamy peaks and settled upon her dusky pink nipples.

“Water,” he ground out.

It took her a moment to understand that he meant the shower. With a flick, she had the taps on and the room instantly started to steam.

His arm slid down behind her and she prepared for him to lower her to the ground but, instead, he grasped her by the hip and lifted her against the tiles with one strong arm, sliding her up until she was positioned above him. He pressed in even closer, pinning her to the wall and pushing her legs behind him to lock around his abdomen. Her breasts were now hovering just below his mouth. This was clearly a man who didn’t intend to bow down to anyone.

She watched as he tilted his head and leaned in, gently engulfing both nipple and the surrounding flesh with his mouth. But, rather than sucking it, his lips remained open, holding, savouring it, like the flesh of a ripe peach, his tongue snaking out to sample each element. The gentle restraint was almost more than Hermione could bear. Then, releasing the moist nub, he rubbed his lips and chin against it, clearly enjoying the sensation of the soft puckered flesh rolling against his own.  

When he finally sucked her into his mouth, Hermione let out an agonised moan, her head pitching back against the tiles as she grasped his silky hair with her free hand. Her aching core desperately needed to be filled, preferably to capacity, but she settled for grinding it against his clenching abdomen as he worked her nipples into long glistening peaks.

Her whimpers told him that his decision to indulge in a side-dish of nipple-garnished breast had been the right one, but his cock, weeping with precum, and her pussy frantically daubing his stomach with her liquid desire, convinced him that it was time for them to finally meet and exchange details.

Allowing her to slide through his arm until his obsidian eyes were locked with her brown ones and his silky cock was bobbing against the cleft of her backside, he held her to him as he turned, kicked off his boots and stepped into the billowing steam of the shower.

The furious gabble of the water welcomed them, cascading in hot sheets down their skin, as the steam blurred their fused bodies like an impressionist. His lips met hers in the sluicing water. Stepping forward, he pressed her back against the glass, holding her in place with the hard planes of his body while his free hand lifted her left leg from his hip and hooked it over the infernal book still locked between their hands.

When she finally slithered down to a standing position, only one foot supported her on the shower base, while the other remained slung over their joined hands, exposing her pussy not only to the frantic spray that deflected off the cursed book but also to his long, elegant fingers, two of which now slid deftly along her folds before delving deep into her slick channel.

“Unnhhhh,” she moaned as her eyes fluttered closed and she clutched at his flexing arm for support.

Thrusting his fingers rhythmically into her tight sheath, he realised she was going to require more preparation if his cock was going to follow without too much opposition. Tilting her head back against the glass, he engulfed her mouth, pushing his tongue into it in slow thrusts to match the passage of his fingers sliding in and out of her other slick hole. When he introduced a third finger, she sucked the air from his lungs with a rapid intake of breath.

Gently, he continued to work them into her, twisting and stretching, before adding a fourth as he fucked her mouth with his tongue. She was a conflicted jumble of liquefied tension under his ministrations but, eventually, he felt that her sheath had stretched sufficiently to accommodate the rigid column that had been eyeing her off jealously throughout his languid fingering.   

Hooking his free hand under her other thigh, he lifted her back up against the glass and spread her wide before locking her eyes with his. He’d done the preparation but he wanted her to choose the outcome. Without hesitation, she reached between them and grabbed his cock, positioning the head at her entrance before allowing it to slide through her fingers with the first thrust of his hips.

“Gods!” she cried out, her eyes rolling back in her head.

Her whole body clenched and he stopped, mid-stroke, waiting for her to relax. Her breaths grunted out with the pressure in her pelvis but eventually she felt able to breathe freely and gave a faint nod for him to continue. Holding her thighs apart, he pushed in a little further, watching her closely. Despite the tension in her shoulders, her lips were slack and her pupils dilated with lust—he knew she wasn’t in severe discomfort. And when her laboured breathing eased again, he pulled back slightly before sliding along her clenching channel a little further, then further, until the final roll of his hips saw him slide in to the hilt, his head kissing her cervix.

“Are you alright,” he murmured in her ear over the patter of the water.

She nodded hurriedly.

Slowly, he drew himself out, but it was like he was vacuum-sealed inside her, she was so tight. The hot, wet suction on his cock was beyond exquisite and he groaned with a carnal pleasure not experienced in years. Each time he thrust back in, it felt like the first time, her honeyed walls grabbed and clenched around him, making him hiss through clenched teeth as his balls twitched eagerly—too eagerly.

Hermione was being reamed into a state of incoherent oblivion. She had never been so completely filled by anything or anyone. The sting in the rim of her pussy had been replaced by a slow burn that melded with the friction of his pumping cock until she felt her core melting with an impending nuclear reaction. Normally she would need her clitoris stimulated to trigger the building tension in her depths but his cock alone seemed to rub and tug on every bundle of nerves and his steady thrusts were enough to drive her muscles into a frenzy.

As his pace quickened, she could hear him grunting in her ear and his raw need was enough to drive her right to the edge, her own moans echoing in the perfect acoustics of the bathroom.

She grasped a handful of his wet hair and pulled him so that his forehead was leaning against hers. She wanted to watch him come. Droplets of water clung to his long eyelashes and his almost pained expression and breath bursting through parted lips, told her he wasn’t far off. She glanced down at his red, pistoning cock as it flashed in and out of her pussy and her cunt clenched reflexively.

“Uuuunnnhhhh.” She watched his face contort as his thrusts turned feral and that was enough to trigger the explosion inside her. Bucking upwards, her insides clamping uncontrollably, she rode his straining column as he continued to drill deeply into her.

Crying out, she allowed the convulsions to wrack her body against the glass, while her pussy gulped and then squirted. He was trying to keep his footing in an earthquake and, finally, he succumbed, his balls shuddering violently and ejecting stream after stream of come deep into her quaking channel, liberally coating it with his thick secretions, marking her insides like a cave painting.  

 

***

 

They were lying in his bed. She was trying to read but her eyes kept roving back to his face as he dozed, peacefully, beside her. Each time she looked at him, all she could see were the seductive nips of his passionate mouth, his lips locked tightly around her nipple, or the ecstatic expression on his shuddering face as he came. His hair was still damp after she’d finally managed to give it a much-needed wash. Ironically, despite the fact that they had both been in desperate need of a clean, the vast majority of scrubbing had occurred between her thighs.

Sighing, she dumped the book of ancient curses on the bed beside her. She wasn’t in need of any of Mr Boats’ titillating descriptions at that moment, feeling more than fulfilled by the afternoon’s antics. But she was interested in his philosophies and insights which peppered the chapters and captured her imagination perhaps more than any of the rest.

Turning the book in their hands and opening to the end of a chapter, she began to read:

_If one is not able to express themselves fully sexually, or otherwise, if they only exist in the imaginings and projections of others, how can they fully exist? How can they be fully free?_

This struck Hermione as being, somehow, significant and she suddenly felt guilty but didn’t know why.

_To be loved is to have one’s everything accepted. From peccadillos to abominations. The entire spectrum. For to be truly loved, one must be loved for the frailty of being human._

Hermione felt her throat tighten.

_To be human is to also be vulnerable. So many intentions of the tragic romantic, conceived in tears, are born drowned._

“Are you alright?”

Her eyes flicked up to see him watching her. She brushed away the tear that was trickling down the side of her nose, shaking her head.  

“It’s just something here. Something I read.”

She brushed away another tear and drew a deep breath.

Then she took a chance. And read it to him. When she’d finished, he closed his eyes and turned away.

Her anger flared. _He really didn’t get it_. She should have known that it'd be wasted on him.

“The next lines?”

She didn’t register what he’d said through the haze of her anger.

“What?”

“What do the following lines say?” he repeated.

She looked down at the swimming pages. There were more lines.

_“And yet we must live beyond that. Beyond the worst of our fears. The depths of our losses. For the burden of the human condition is not to be experienced alone . . . ”_

“It is to be shared,” he finished.

She stared at him. “You have read this book,” she whispered.

His dark eyes bored into her, their infinite depths stretching back like a long and lonely road, paved with pain.

“I wrote it.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line 'So many intentions of the tragic romantic, conceived in tears, are born drowned' was adapted from the wonderful 'Song of Lunch' poem by Christopher Reid.


	7. The Past that Pines

_I wrote it?_

Hermione continued to stare blankly at Severus. _What was that? Some sort of word puzzle? Unusual timing if it was. Maybe he’d actually said something else that sounded like ‘I wrote it’. Like . . . Ire O’Tit! Yes, that could have been it . . . some sort of Irish Burlesque dancer . . ._

Hermione’s mind had short-circuited. Her inner monologue was throwing up a fruit salad of furphies in a desperate attempt to avoid the horrible truth. She chewed on her cheek as her foot started to jiggle—the only part of her body that had managed to shake its delusion and was now looking for something to kick. 

Gradually the rolling realisation worked its way up her body and, finally, reached her brain—the swearing part of it. _What the actual fucking fuck?!!_

He was looking up at the ceiling. Waiting. He didn’t even need to look at her to know what was coming.

“You . . . did . . . what?” The words were delivered in splinters through her gritted teeth.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d had three days to come up with a convincing placation. Maybe if he’d spent that time planning, rather than thinking about fucking her, he might have had something more to present than ham-handed silence on a wilted bed of awkwardness.

“Are you telling me you wrote . . . this book?”

The furrow in her brow deepened as she stared in bewilderment at the pages flopping open between their hands.

“You’re . . . Mr Boats?”

Eyes closed, he tapped his index finger on his nose.

“It’s a pseudonym.”

“No fucking kidding!” She blasted him.

Dropping his hand, he looked at her with a resigned expression. He couldn’t get away. And he couldn’t cast a silencing spell. He’d just have to weather it. He was in ‘Granger danger’ again and there was nothing he could do about it.   

“Why didn’t you tell me before now? Did you forget?” She raised a sarcastic eyebrow.

He settled back against his pillow. Most of the forthcoming questions wouldn’t be requiring answers, simply expressions of guilty remorse. He’d do his best.

“Sit up and look at me!” she demanded, yanking on his hand.

 _Maybe not_. He pushed himself up and shuffled back until he was leaning against the headboard.

“I deserve an answer, Severus.”

_Merlin. She’d called him Severus. It sounded so . . . so sensual coming from her mouth . . . that mouth . . ._

“Are you listening to me?!” She suddenly snatched up her wand and jabbed it into his throat. “You’d better start talking or I’m going to blast that dim-witted look off your fucking face!”

She was breathing heavily as she slowly twisted the wand into his neck. _If it really was his book, then maybe it was his curse too. Had he known this would happen? Had he planned this whole thing?_

Adam’s apple jousting away the jabbing vinewood, he poured out a sigh that seemed to have been dredged up from the soles of his feet.

“I wrote it twelve years ago, never thinking it would see the light of day. A small publishing company printed a few hundred copies, then it looked like sinking back into oblivion where it belonged. One day I found a copy whilst perusing the staff section in the Hogwart’s Library. I destroyed it, but days later it was replaced. Madam Pince was a stickler for ensuring the library catalogue was maintained. I knew I couldn’t afford to destroy any more copies or she’d be suspicious and investigate further.” He sighed again. “I didn’t want anyone reading it in case they linked it back to me. That’s when I decided to put it behind the locks and wards. . . And that’s when I placed the book bind.”

Hermione’s hand shook, on the verge of skewering his windpipe. “ _You_ placed the book bind?”

“Yes.” His black eyes didn’t waver from hers.

“And so why are we still sitting here stuck together by this fucking pile of pulp?!” Her voice rose.

“Because . . .” his cheeks blew out as he slowly released his breath. “I forgot . . . the phrase.”

Hermione’s wand hand dropped, trickling the end of it down his chest to stab into the bedcovers.

“You forgot?”

He scratched the side of his head, half closing his eyes against the question.

“You fucking forgot?” She raised herself onto her knees to look down at him.

He turned his free palm upwards in response.

“So have you _tried_ to remember?” She leaned on the wand like it was a walking stick.

“Actually, no I haven’t,” he replied. “I’ve just been meditating these past three days. It didn’t occur to me to try to dig into my memory for a solution.”

“You are in no position to be snarky, my friend.” Hermione raised her wand and waggled it at him. “This is all your fault.”

“May I remind you of how all this began?” He raised an accusing eyebrow and Hermione only just stopped herself from impaling it with her wand.

“Actually, no. You’re no longer qualified to remind anyone of anything,” she said bitterly.

They continued to glare at one another until Severus broke eye contact and let his head tip against the headboard.

She’d never seen him look so defeated.   

 _Professor Severus Snape. Potions Master. One of the most powerful wizards in the world. Mind like a sieve._ It didn’t add up.

As she watched him, her thoughts ticked over the events of the past days. His revelation put a new slant on everything. _I. Boats_.

She tapped her wand against her lips. “It’s an anagram isn’t it? I. Boats . . . Who’s Tobias?”

“My middle name.” His voice was flat, emotionless. “And my father’s name.”

She continued to appraise him. He’d written it. Every word in that book. Every beautiful word. _Where had that come from?_ He was clearly eloquent. And of course he knew potions. _But ‘Passion’?_ Well she only had to think back to an hour before. _Fuck, he was the most passionate being she’d ever met_. It wasn’t that much of a stretch.

But the depth of his words. The depth of feeling—of emotions. _Could he be the ‘tragic romantic’?_

Hermione sighed. There was no use being angry with him. No doubt he was angry enough with himself. She needed him to release the bind. And the only way to do that was to help him remember.

Sliding down from her knees to her backside, she wriggled back against the headboard, mirroring his pose.

“What have you tried?” she asked quietly.

“Everything I can think of,” he rumbled. “When you were asleep, I spent hours going through every word, every phrase, every thought I had.”

The silence weighed upon them.

“Why did you write it?”

It was Severus’ turn to sigh. He rubbed his fingers against his bare knee.

“It was a balance.”

Hermione waited for the explanation.

“I was immersed. In subterfuge. In torture and death. How else can one survive? It was my way of processing the pain. Of acknowledging the hope and . . . beauty . . . that still existed. Somewhere. Somewhere beyond all that.”

Hermione’s chest tightened. The book had been his therapy. But he’d suffered too much. And, no doubt, his failure to remember was linked to that trauma.

She reached out and grasped the hand sitting idly on his knee, rubbing the back of it gently with her thumb. His shoulders visibly relaxed and he turned to her. Not speaking. Just his dark gaze sliding over her. That penetrating stare, disarticulating every part of her being.

Her emotions were a jumbled mess at that moment. She wanted to take away the deep-set pain in his eyes, but at the same time she desperately wanted to get away. She needed her own time, her own space, to process this—to process everything.

He obviously wanted her to take away his pain too, as his hand moved from his knee to hers and his fingers began a slow, sensual descent down her inner thigh.

She felt her body responding immediately—that part of her was clearly more than up for a sympathy fuck but she couldn’t let it happen. He needed to focus. They both did.

“No.” She trapped his fingers against her thigh like a thwarted spider. “Nothing more happens until this bind is removed.”

His face dropped and his brow furrowed like a deprived child. He seemed more concerned by that prospect than anything else that had happened so far. Then he started mumbling. She almost laughed out loud. He was desperately trying to guess the release phrase. Most of it sounded like gibberish. He was, clearly, scraping the bottom of the barrel.

Admittedly, banning all sex until they were finally separated was as much a punishment for her as it was for him. Her pussy was already uncomfortably swollen, like some comedy cunt that instantly inflated upon his touch.

She’d also been fantasising about him—the way he’d lifted her, bodily, to his mouth to sample her breast. But now she was keen to see if he could perform a similar manoeuvre with her pussy. _Perhaps a clean and jerk onto his shoulders? Or maybe ‘the snatch’ would be more appropriate_.

“Is this amusing?”

“Not at all.” She had to look away from him.

 _Okay think Hermione_. She reluctantly pushed away the image of him pinning her against the wall on his shoulders with his face buried in her pussy.

She hadn’t come across anything in her reading so far that was of any use. He’d spent three days trying to remember and he couldn’t. She could join him in making up words but the chances of happening upon the correct phrase by accident were virtually zero.

She bit her bottom lip. _But what if?_  

Glancing over at him, she saw that he’d given up muttering and was simply staring into space.

“Legilimency?”

He took a moment before responding with a curt shake of his head. “I tried.”

“No, not you. Me. I’ll perform the legilimency. I’ll search through your memory and try to find it.”

“And since when were you trained as a legilimens?” It wasn’t quite caustic Snape but the contempt was still there.

“I taught myself in my final years at college,” she replied, trying not to sound too haughty. “I thought it’d be a useful skill as a teacher—to understand why students were having problems with certain topics.”

He stared at her. Looking conflicted. She stared back. It was a good idea. She didn’t understand why he was balking.

Finally, he pinched the bridge of his nose again, speaking into his clenched palm. “You will see some things that you might find . . . troubling.”

She nodded. Of course. He’d been a Death-Eater and Spy. She didn’t know how much he’d been involved in the torture and killing but, no doubt, he would have had to participate to have remained in Voldemort’s inner sanctum.

“I understand,” she looked at him solemnly.

He had that pained expression on his face again. “Actually, I don’t think you do,” he sighed. “I was twenty-eight when I put the bind on. Just . . . go back a long way and . . . try to ignore everything else you see till then.”

 _What did he think she was going to do?_ _Sit in there for hours, trawling through every mundane memory and snarky thought from this moment back._ _As riveting as complicated formulae and potions ingredients were, she had more important things to do._

“Fine,” she nodded. He still looked uncomfortable but there were no other options on the table. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

He closed his eyes for a brief moment before opening them to look at her. “Proceed,” he huffed.

It was the least enthusiastic invitation she’d ever received but she had to take it.

Returning his gaze, she cast the Legilimens incantation and immediately found herself gliding through what looked like a tunnel with moving images on the walls. It took a little while for her to work out how to control the speed of her progress and, to begin with, the images were simply a series of flashing blurs. Gradually, she managed to slow down and the images crystallised, coming into sharper focus.

 _What the fuck?!_ The image before her was of her lying on her back, legs spread with his cock furiously pumping into her pussy. _She’d never done that! How in Merlin’s name . . ._ then she realised that it wasn’t a memory, it was a thought, a fantasy. _Oh, he’d been thinking about her—about fucking her_. She guessed that wasn’t such a surprise after the events of the past couple of days.

She continued on to the next animated image. Her again. This time with his cock down her throat—her looking far more happy and comfortable than she would in real life. _Lucky he had the fantasy world for that one_. Then another. At least she thought it was her, the hair looked the same but he was doing her from behind. _Was he fucking her in the arse?_ She pursed her lips. _There seemed to be a pattern developing_.

Speeding up, she continued along the tunnel as if she were running down a Hogwart’s corridor lined with animated photographs. And practically every one included her. It was like a moving pornographic shrine—his come spurting over her face; her tits covered with come; come trickling from her pussy; come dribbling down her chin. _Oh, here was a nice change of pace_. Come oozing out of her pussy and arse at the same time. _Was there someone else involved or had he fantasized himself two dicks?_

Most of his fantasies were pretty come- and cock-centric. It seemed he hadn’t moved far beyond the male gaze. Although, she did seem to be talking in some of them. Well, if saying ‘fuck me’ or ‘fuck me hard’ or some such equivalent was considered talking—it was hardly inspiring conversation.

Interspersed amongst the fantasy images were real memories. Images seen through his eyes. Watching her sleep. Watching her eat. Watching her in the bathroom when he was pretending not to look. The man of mystery was becoming less and less mysterious by the second. In fact, she’d probably sum up the past few minutes with the phrase ‘ _too much information!_ ’ Her head was starting to hurt.

Moving faster, she delved into older memories and was shocked to find that she was still there. _These were from before she’d even arrived back and Hogwarts!_ She travelled back further and further. Years. And she kept popping up. But they weren’t memories. Any of them. He’d been thinking about her since she’d left. A lot.

And then she came to her final year as a student at Hogwarts. She was everywhere on the tunnel walls. He must have been watching her all the time. From the head table, out on the school grounds, in potions class, watching her laughing with Ginny, crying on Harry’s shoulder, looking down her cleavage as she picked up her books. _How old was she there? Barely fucking legal!_

She pulled out of his mind, breathing heavily.

“Don’t.” He raised a hand before she could speak.

“But . . . “

“I know. Don’t say it.” He looked mortified.

She blinked furiously, her voice tight. “You have a lot of explaining to do, Mister.”

He nodded, resignedly.

No wonder he hadn’t wanted her in there. She stared at him a moment longer before taking a deep, steadying breath and delving back in. She accelerated past weeks, months, years until she reached the memories from before her time at Hogwarts. Many of the faces that flashed before her were strangers, although others she knew well, like the younger versions of Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall. There was a bit of sex but not much. Mainly women in seedy premises. Probably whores. Everything seemed darker, greyer. She sighed. Her head still ached. This was all getting depressing.

He watched her face intently. He wouldn’t blame her for hating him after this. The mind was, of course, the ultimate non-consensual facilitator. But he had, naturally, always expected that what occurred in the privacy of his own mind would have actually remained private—for his consumption only. Now she’d seen it all. And it clearly troubled her.

Her face was pale and her brow deeply furrowed as her eyes flickered side to side. She was breathing quickly, almost panting. Suddenly her face contorted in a rictus of pain. _Where was she? What had she found?_

As he watched, her eyes turned glassy, like an amber sunset into shallow pools, then the tears began to fall. _He had to get her out of there._

Before he could do anything, she pulled back and fell sideways, covering her mouth with her hand, sobbing.

“Did you find anything? Did you find the release?” He leant toward her, speaking urgently.

She didn’t answer, weeping into her palm.

He tugged at her arm. “Hermione!”

She finally looked up at him.

And nodded.

 


	8. The Last of Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so we come to the end of this little story. If you enjoyed it, please let me know as I have another fledgling fic bubbling away that I’m thinking of having a go at. I wanted to get through this one with only two characters and I think I’ve managed to do that without too many gaps. If there are any, please fill them in with your own wonderful imaginations. It has been so much fun to share this writing journey with you again. Here I am, only two stories in and already addicted. Thanks so much to the peeps that have popped in with comments, ideas, feedback and love. DS xx.

She hadn’t spoken. Not since toppling out of his mind. Instead, she leaned against the headboard, staring at the far wall. He waited. He couldn’t break the silence—it wasn’t his to break.

“Why me?” Her voice was small.

He knew what she was asking but needed more detail to answer her properly.

“Tell me what you saw. Maybe then I can answer.”

She tilted her head slightly to look at him.

“You don’t know the contents of your own mind?”

“What I know of my mind and what you may have seen are vastly different. Legilimens is a blunt tool. It can be as easily manufactured as misinterpreted.”

She knew what she saw. It was either there or it wasn’t. She didn’t understand how those images could be defended.

“Let’s start with the fact that you were stalking me throughout my final year at Hogwarts.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t actively seek you out. Although, equally, I never averted my gaze. What you saw are the memories that my brain thought significant enough to hold on to. Everything else has washed away with the tide of passing years. And it turns out that you were worthwhile remembering. Significant at the time.”

“Why?”

He sighed, resting his wrist on his bent knee. “Life was pretty miserable. There was very little light to be found. And you brought something . . . vibrant. You laughed a lot. I wasn’t surrounded by much happiness. Your energy felt . . . soothing.”

“But you watched me.”

“Yes. I was intrigued. Throughout the chaos, you retained an . . . honesty . . . that I admired.”

“Honesty?” She’d never been described that way before.  

“You were kind but fiery, courageous but vulnerable. And smart—brilliant really.”

_Brilliant?_ A small smile played on her lips.

He cleared his throat. “Are we done with this?”

“No.” Her smile disappeared. “You were looking down my cleavage.”

He had a vague memory. “And how did you interpret that?”

“I thought that would be pretty obvious. You were trying to see my breasts.”

He gave a brief nod. “Entirely possible, but there is also the chance that I was surprised to see them, since, according to Hogwarts’ uniform policy, there should have been no chance of your cleavage being visible at all.”

Hermione thought back. She had gone through a phase in her final year of leaving the top button or two of her shirt undone—a small act of defiance against the school rules, an expression of her burgeoning sexuality and an attempt to catch the eye of someone she couldn’t even remember. There hadn’t been any similar images. Perhaps he was telling the truth.

“So what about the intervening years? When I wasn’t even here?”

He absently gestured with the hand resting on his knee.

“You’d made an impression. I could either accept that the banality of my existence here was infinite. Or I could imagine something a little better. A fantasy of hope, perhaps. You were a symbol of . . .  potential. Not for me, necessarily, but in general. And, again, hope, even if it is fantastical, is often all we have.”

She remembered there hadn’t been a lot of sex through that period—mainly scenarios, meetings, talking together, walking together. “What were you imagining?”

He shrugged. “As a legilimens you see images but context and emotion are, often, absent. In effect, they can interpreted however you like. I was imagining myself in a life that recognised me as a person beyond the asexual, student-owned entity that a Professorship endows.”

It was a good point. The responsibility of being a full-time teacher, especially at Hogwarts where there was no reprieve from the role, took a lot from you, including large chunks of your identity.  

“So you didn’t find me attractive at all?”

“What do you think?”

“I want to hear you say it.” Her eyes flicked to him.

His eyebrows sighed as he looked, unseeingly, at his mind’s image of her. “You grew into a beautiful woman. Not just physically . . . I thought you were a genuinely lovely person.”

Hermione blushed. She hadn’t bargained on him being so honest. However, there persisted the matter of recent events—something she didn’t think he would be explaining away so easily.

“So that just brings us to the most recent fanfare of fucking.”

He snorted and shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a man. And one that hasn’t been fucked in an inordinately long period of time.”

_He could have fooled her._ She’d never known anyone so adept. She wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that he’d been appointed Professor of Fucking.

“And,” he continued, “suddenly the person I’ve been thinking about for years is, literally, stuck to me. I can feel her rubbing against me, every microsecond of the day. Then I discover that she doesn’t seem to completely despise me. In fact, she tolerates me. And, inexplicably . . . she proceeds to give me the best blow-job of my life.”

Hermione smiled to herself. So she hadn’t lost her touch.

“I admit that my penis has been doing the vast majority of my thinking over the past three days. I’ve been a wreck. Totally out of my mind. Most of what you saw weren’t even fantasies. Just unbidden images floating through of their own accord.”

She thought about her own mind and how it seemed to have a mind of its own. If he’d legilimensed her in the past hour, he would have seen himself in at least ten different action poses, hauling or snatching her onto his shoulders and in varying states of eating her pussy. In fact, it was her wayward thoughts that had gotten them into this mess in the first place. It was hard for her to take the moral high-ground.

He turned to face her, his unwavering gaze locked on hers. “But I will understand if, after this, I have lost your trust.”

That jolted her. Jabbed her straight in the heart. _Was it intuition? Coincidence? Fate?_ Whatever it was, his words turned her stomach to lead.

It was time. She’d already decided what she would do.

Propping herself on the book, she pushed up onto her hands and knees before crawling over to him and climbing onto his lap. She straddled him with her thighs and looked down into his face.

His expression was a mixture of intrigue and confusion. She wished he understood. It would make this easier. But there was likely no way for him to understand until it happened.

She looked into those black orbs. Darker than any eyes she’d ever encountered and yet far brighter for their depth of feeling. A depth she was now going to plumb, with no sense of its limits.

Holding up their bound hands, she gazed at him, into him, and spoke.

“I trust you.”

The book suddenly fell from between them. Liberated. Now, strangely innocuous in its resting place on the bedcovers.

His face registered shock and then something else. A dawning realisation crawling over his skin, consuming his features with an understanding long buried. And she had been right to position herself securely close. He needed her. Burying his face in her stomach, he wrapped his arms around her waist, as she held his head to her, stifling the sobs that wracked his body.

Her words had opened something in him, had fractured and fissured the wall that had protected but also deceived him all these years. She knew what he would be seeing now. The same images that had played out before her.

A young woman, baby on hip, cherubic fingers interwoven in her auburn hair.

His voice, deeply earnest, tight with emotion. “I won’t let anything happen to you. To any of you.”

And hers in response, fearful but strong. “I know Severus. I trust you.”

Those three words “I trust you.” Lily Potters’ last words to him and the words he had punished himself with ever since. Perhaps he’d chosen them for the book bind as they were the words he considered least likely to be uttered by accident. To him in particular. The words he was least deserving of hearing.

She gently stroked his head as he clutched her tightly, continuing to weep quietly into the hollow below her breasts. And as he wept, she found herself gently rocking him, like a child—an ancient instinct of comfort and solace. It seemed to bring relief, as he gradually stopped shuddering and simply clung to her.

They sat, connected, for what seemed like hours. His head was slack against her but his arms remained tight. Hanging on as if fearful of letting go.

Finally, he pulled back, tentatively, stiff from the prolonged union, and looked up at her. His eyes were red rimmed and his face flushed. He looked so unsure of himself that she didn’t want to prolong the torture, but she needed him to know.

“I do trust you, Severus,” she whispered.

He interlocked his fingers with hers—those hands that had been bound but touching, and used the other to pull her face down to his.

His soft lips captured hers in a kiss of such gentle sweetness that her throat tightened. His was a sensitive soul. So horribly exposed. And yet still willing to show vulnerability. She rested her forehead against his, their breathing synchronised, infinitely reflected in one another’s eyes.

And then her mind—her wonderful, wayward, whimsical mind intervened. _They were separated_. _The bind was countered. But, more importantly, the sex suspension was lifted._

“You’re going to be busy,” she murmured.

She felt his eyebrow quirk up against her forehead.

“You have ten potions of passion to brew.”

He tipped his head back from hers as a full and genuine smile captured his features. The first she’d ever seen. “Which would you like to sample first?” His voice was low and sensuous.

“Let’s just start with _clitoral enhancement_ and go from there.” She knew her grin was ravenous but she couldn’t help it. She was desperate for him.

A mischievous glint sparked his eyes as he gently leaned into her, pushing her sideways and sliding on top of her.

“I don’t need a potion for that.” His creamy voice, liquid sex, slid through her.

_Don’t I know it!_ Her clitoris was already swollen and throbbing. And as he continued his low lusty rumblings in her ear, Mesmer-ising her, she felt herself floating, being carried away. She intertwined her hands with his, but this time she had no intention of letting go. She was free. And with her freedom, she chose him.  

 

 


End file.
